Saturday, May 21, 2011

A Poetic Spoof

Sarah Palin

Sarah Palin, I want to believe in the limpet-shaped hegemony of snails or what else is there to dream?

In our lives connected by so many chitinous ribbons, I once heard a snail sneeze then forget who it was. The sea was cold and Sarah Palin spoke in omniscient voice, in Roman disguises or a fire, appeared as an amalagram of back strokes across rough waters. Then the night sneezed. When the night sneezes, it turns to day. When the day holds its breath, it's time to elect Sarah Palin's most wistful reflections echoing within the conus of despair-to-being.

Once I was a boy. Once I closed my eyes and imagined the Redwoods of duplicit intent. That I needed to be saved was what I projected onto a crowd of hungary faces. Sarah Palin has memorized the ticks of modern psychology.

When Sarah Palin spoke at Potsdam, she encouraged us to remove our turbinate or murex shells that made us allergic to allergy itself. She asked us to shape our hands into wine glasses and taste the imaginary tannins of our ubiquitous bonds. Many of us stood strong and fierce but remained fearful of crustacean theories and the small lives of rocks.

Sarah Palin reminds us how she was once very tiny in a forest of men. This was before Ben Franklin and the invention of wingless sex. A man with obscenely large hands gave her permission to believe. A tree fell not far from Sarah Palin's frostbitten toes.

Through the nomadic blare of HDTV eyes, Sarah Palin asks: Is there a constitution for unloved otters? Is there an amendment for monotoned hunters who shackle herbivores wearing pajamas of matching colors?

I wanted to believe in the urgency of everything. I wound up believing that Vasco de Gama and Captain Cook were the same small fry.

Once Sarah Palin stood before our homes. Once I spoke from a bipartisan house of infinity. I gave my soul to the talking whales.

When someone teaches you to breathe, you can then sing.

I once sang for Sarah Palin and she replied with astrea longing and rasping tongue. I remembered the drowning mothers underwater. In my head, I lashed out at the world with forsaken conveyor belts and fresh water schematics. I wanted to love the earth's fading blue eyes and lilting tongues. I wanted to believe in a month of yesterdays, of cruise ships never arriving. I wanted to love the child in Sarah Palin until I no longer strived for the namesake of identity.

When Sarah Palin warns us of the dangers of the New Science, our televisions will burst, our CYMK dreams exposed for what they really were, our daughters will step on the Rostellaria shells of a new fever. We will toss our bottles of existential antacids onto the shore of the outdated and the frugally faithless.

(Published in The Literary Burlesque)

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