Jay Mandeville

Rookie - 0 Points (February 16 / Kansas City, Missouri USA)

Twelve Glimpses - Poem by Jay Mandeville

The cuffs of my
relaxed cotton trousers
are damp from crossing
my front yard to
the mailbox.

Taking down stacks
of books from my
library window,
the Sun shines through:
last days of Winter.

Pounding drums and bass
increase and diminish
their volume outside
my picture window:
my neighbor's car-stereo
as he drives 'round
the corner.

Tacked to the wall,
a magazine photo of
Steed and Emma.
How carefully I
positioned it!

(mangled Shiki)

Groundhog Day redux:
Not everyone wakes up
to 'I Got You, Babe',
Mr. Murray

I don't feel like
saying a word,
but on TV
a massive choir
is singing.

Mental clarity
rewards darkness with
cerulean transparency.
Confusion punishes
brightest daylight
with dusk-born devils
and reruns of monstrosity.

Oh for a moon
over the freeway
where I risk my life
driving home tonight.

Changing into
yet another loud
Hawaiian shirt:
the thriftstore has
a lot to answer for.

TV late at night:
Gable and Colbert
hitchhike through
my drowsy eyelids.

Oz restoration footnote:
there are microscopic
flying monkeys
concealed in the
pixelled shirtsleeves
of The Scarecrow.

If you hear the
Sacred Monochord
inside each guitar string,
then what does this
3-minute pop song

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, August 21, 2012

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