Onomato People

Onomatopoeia
Onomatopoeia
Onomatopoeia

The eight people
Who could use
The story of the tune
Found each other
And then played on
To the world's unconscious relief

Sproing, zoom







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As Easy As A Schnapps-Soaked Donut

As easy as a schnapps-soaked donut
On a small, chipped orange plate
With wispy blue flames

"I could live on these," she said
But didn’t reach for it as it was drawn away

There were frowns from the comedians
All around the table
Hearing, "Just kidding"

Then, "Don’t look so reverent everybody"
As it was pushed back









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Shift

An amazing thriftstore find
A bike, chip-festooned like confetti

This-other-hope puts away the phone,
Tries to make it on the street

We catch it out of the corner of one eye
“Oh, I don’t think so,” we see, “Creep”
And turn away

Snapping dogs
Get a pedal in the nose
Still confidant of other aromas

Hope gets the phone back out,
Chip-festooned like confetti

We "friend"-away,
“Oh, I don’t think so"

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Life As A Poet

Danny was a poet, and a clown who only did weddings. (Though in the space for “occupation” on forms, he filled in, “Plumber.”) It was just the receptions. He would only perform the ceremony if there was no other way to break the ice between the opposing families. So far, no such luck.

On the most recent festive occasion, when the bride hit cardboard instead of cake under the frosting, for the ceremonial first slice, Danny packed up his exaggerated pantomime veil and ten inch plastic ring (re-sprayed gold for every performance) and left, walking like a civilian. This wasn’t like the rodeo, where he would be absolutely essential to the safety of the sport.

For a second, he had wanted to yell, “It’s okay Juliette, he’s not really dead,” but he interrupted the urge, sensing how things would be if its obtuse skew took him down. He knew that the bride’s immediate and sudden gush of tears was a release of all the anxiety that the wedding’s preparations had prepared in her and he wasn’t going to spoil the moment.

The spell was lifted. Who knows about the “happily ever after.” Danny had seen enough of this kind of thing over the last few years — though never as spectacular as this cardboard-cake incident. He had already decided that he wouldn’t blame our ugly divorce rate on his happy couples, even if they couldn’t hang in there when it came to a bitter end.

The groom stopped by on Monday with a check, regardless, which Danny politely accepted, and he bummed a ride downtown with this groom, who would be stopping at the bakery about halfway there. Danny had been to the place a few times. It was fairly clean and well lit with the typical long white tubes, but not the phalanx of florescent fixtures that spread out above the bakery in the “superstore” a block away. There was usually soft-rock, barely audible above the various refrigeration fans.

While Danny waited in the car, he looked through his stack of checks and considered which occupation was the one that subsidized the other two. He looked up to see the groom inside, nodding consistently; glad not to see a scene of denials and recriminations.

The groom walked quietly over to a wedding cake displayed near the front windows and opened a door in the small case. Their chins down, no one made any move to stop him. He pushed a couple of fingers into the side of the lowest layer, and where his bride had found cardboard, he found cake.

Back in the car, Danny suggested, “So... Where’re you going on your honeymoon?” hoping at any kind of irony — which the groom acknowledged by ignoring.

Groomy left-off sorting his car keys and looked up. “It started to sound like they have a real problem dealing with people who are getting married. What did I expect?” One deep breath. “They almost got all ‘us-and-them’ about It. I wish I could just say, ‘No Stress.’” ( ...and here he tries to sound like “old world” hospitality, pumped) “‘You make cakes. Come to my wedding. Kiss the bride. Bring a cake. I’ll give you money. Okay? Pick your own time to arrive. The anticipation will add to the fun. When you get there, we’ll celebrate that too.’” The windshield was stare space. “I’m not trying to be sarcastic.”

Danny waited.

“What?” pleaded the groom. “I don’t care how it sounds.”

Danny mocked a nervous smile, eyes wide, and shied away, gesturing a mute denial with his hands holding off any possible accusation.

“Instead, they’re like,” (Here the groom goes on in the voice of an announcer from the “Golden Age” of whatever) “‘Our Records For The Morning of December 25th Show: 5:47, No Indication of Santa Claus On Our Radar; 5:53, No Santa; 6:04, Rooftop Sensors Detect a Sleigh, Slightly Underweight, Based On Our Projections,’” giving that a real sigh. “For a second, I thought they might be expecting me to pay for it.”

Danny frowned slightly and shook his head with a slow exaggeration.

The Groom settled down to: “I keep wanting to say, ‘Just be happy for us.’” and then: “You can’t tell anybody anything.”

Danny said, “Nada.”

Life as a poet isn’t easy.



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