Brian’sPoems

Swash

This is not a letter. How can I write when I have no chewing gum? For that matter, how can I write while listening to a song about a sweater. (It’s not the sweater; it’s the harmony, baby!)

I don’t know anyone raised on a riverboat, nor anyone named Brunhilda. Of course this doesn’t mean I never will. In this river town there is one helluva ripple. I’ve been here nearly every day of my life, and I still don’t know exactly where to go to get what I want.

How would you spend your last Saturday somewhere? Working is a safe bet for the young and insane, but I must warn you not to undertake anything grandiose with one foot on the train. I know this doesn’t bother J.Q.P., but if you are insane enough to work down to the last minute, then you must be looking for some closure.

Forget about good days, think of one that sucks. You felt good in the A.M. and then nothing tasted sweet after that first Coke. But it can all turn with the flip of a coin. It must be the fall karma blowing in on that sweet Zephyr. (I wish Zephyr rhymed with Sarsaparilla.)

Sometimes you can’t escape Bill and his vicious source code (unless you’re the type who wouldn’t spend your last Saturday at work). But oh my sweet luck! This week I had a little brown-eyed, blushing Serendipity waiting for me. I can’t spell it but it rhymes with tangerine.

I can close my eyes easily tonight. I won’t be dreaming about this literary debacle, but of myself standing naked in the park, singing my favorite song, and hurling my favorite four letter words at the hecklers.