A Yellow Violet
1. The Nosegay
Bright morning Sun shining amidst dawn's early clouds, the flower girl up early as usual, the traditional nosegay of pansies or thoughts, is replaced today with a fragrance of violets... Last night's nightmare was a living dream, as the seduction was sorry & mean, she will have to be more careful with the acquaintances she keeps... As busy peddlers go through the motions to acknowledge her own presence, the gentleman from 4B is sometimes known to come about the premises... & so with a gay heart she will ride the horse of the day's chariot, as the Sun will not subside until long in the twilight evening.
2. A Yellow Violet
In barnyard woodland, beside forsythia & thicket, wild rose bramble & truth, the yellow flower that was a violet was found & removed... Moved to flower garden of iris & daylily, a find, a peace of my mind, the lesson of "nothing is impossible" in the teeth of summer's dog day bite; might the powers that be, a discovery of biblical dimension. As the popular right fights for the marriage rite, without any mention of the weather!
3. The Dome & the Drum
The dome is married to the drum through the use of the pendentives. So too the women & men are joined through the use of poetry. Sappho & her lyre, a musical desire the moment has arrived for celebration! The yellow violet grows in the yard of the family, a promise, as we know of a new beginning. & with no further ado we hope to renew a vow for the ages, The Church & the Cross, the dome & the drum & the beginning has already begun!
4. Lemon Jell-O
Refreshing & satisfying, we see the gelatin mellow, a shimmying upon her knees, please, I appease the giant. In her bordello, a little girl’s laugh with a woman’s knowledgeable smile, the simile of the humanity with a monstrous desire, to be a mother, to be a child bearing passionate kisses. To be a lover, to be a woman, to be a sister… & with shimmering lips I will imbibe of your poison, the delicious delight, a lasting breath.
5. Le Viol
The security of familiarity, the security of a salt, an under-seawater tendency to deflate, the sexual nature of the debate, & an assault upon the vital senses; a French word meaning “rape.” The seizure of a promise, the breaking of a vessel of warm water & the tossing of the Tea into the Harbor! The root of all the evil that would follow, greed & avarice, a taking, a breaking of The Word, as the cattle are being herded. Our hour has arrived tonight, the choice is stark, our choice is real. Go back to the darkness & find a light, then put it out, prepare the knife & steel.
6. Early Morning Aubade
Love song. An early morning love song. Aubade.
Bide thee well.
I bid you adieu.
The Bicknell thrush, from mountaintops,
A new home amidst the barn swallows & the owl,
A patch of green & yellow violets feeds
The cow on the loose,
A frozen brake line
& the truck won't fire,
My lyre is delicious.
As the day breaks out
In the new!
7. Blue Pansies for Breakfast
Having blue pansies over for breakfast, I will feed them Miracle-Grow. I will offer them a tall cool glass of water, an offering I know they will enjoy. I will seat them by the large window so the Sun will make them feel at home. The blue pansies are thoughts away from being here. A mood ring might be helpful, the Danish know their name, some thinking once thought insane or faulty to a point. Doink!
8. The Blue Pansies at Church (Left in the Lurch)
Open petals say it best, a love affair, a county fair, a prized tomato, the brother a guest. The blue pansies are all set to marry a yellow flower, the hour of the big day has arrived. But nowhere is the bride! Nowhere are the cold feet, a thought complete without hymn, Him or little him! Left in the lurch of the aisle of the church, a decision not today, Dikembe Mutumbo; rejection by the side of life's highway; a bump in the road spilling the coffee all over the crotch of the slacks. Relax, she'll come around, he knows!
9. Aural Sexual Relations
He's baaaack! Let's walk these puppies.
Rick Santorum is running for President, man of dog's breath on his mind. A token appreciation for the passage of time & Christian forgiveness, (yours, not mine!) a borrowing of the late night picture show, & who knows what might happen?
Please allow her the opportunity to breathe, to be seen, not obscene, but a girl in love with a man. A stand against inequality, a faithful public servant, blowing in the winds of chimes, & aural sexual relations on my mind, Georgia peaches in heavy syrup. A bag & a dress, the E. E. Cummings: a staple centered on a photograph of her naval (navel) orange.
She is a leaf that falls, a borrowed time, the rapport designed in sign language. A relationship based on faith & trust, a must in this line of business, a political advantage to a randy bush, the burning of bridges behind us. A blinding light guides us as we try to get a handle, musically in turn with Bach & Vivaldi, a logic we can't control; a smoke shield of fog & glow, the hug of enduring grace & movement.
Aural spiritual relations with a Man, he can say okay, but mean no, mean yes he can, so let's go! She must lead the dance... A romance built on liberal art letters, a better way to gather hay, hey! We can still see the thong! Gotta get along, a little seduction never hurt an innocent romance.
10. In the Beginning
In the beginning, a flower... a glorious bloom, a notorious odor, a noxious fume; then came the daffodils, hyacinth & paper-whites, a forsythia blossomed & a black tulip did grow, we know this from the recordings of botanists, shepherds, innkeepers & perhaps poets. Later brought the violets, the wintergreen & the floral yellow rape; still all could relate to a storied event meant to be told, once, & never again.
In the beginning, a scent, bold, told of ages ago, but never experienced. We trust: our fathers. A carrion scent, a blossom, the lack of a body, a deceased without a deed, the rest would agree, a demon seed!
The evil of the aroma suggested the devil's worship of gardening, closeness to the earth & the soil. A flower like a carcass, smelling malodorous, & a scent sent from Prince who-we-do-not-wish-to-know. A fragrance, no, pollution, a solution for its presence not known, & logic in name-calling brought us "The Flowers of evil", a graduation of gradations from mal to Satanic, & a French awareness of the vile viol.
Garden music did play, an air of Baudelaire, one might suggest or perhaps dare to say, an anyway, a today, a gay & happy crew of campers, the violence suggested by the flowers came to nothing; for now. Poetry astonishing astounds with the passage of time. He was true to his original design, a sign language of interpretation of a yellow nation in blue sky.
Obscenities were hurled, across bar & grill, across panel & jury before the bench. Judicial restraint was not their strong suit, the best we could do was assume the position, a mission statement of stunted flowers, an acknowledgment of a different power, a memory of a poem resonating in the throat of a bloom, too soon? I think he would find a way to see.
Today we believe we can see the harmony of "she" with "it," equal partners in gender identity, a novel approach to the fascination with the exotic floral plants. Again we need to find peace in our room, seated, or lying in beds of crimson & gold.
But a history was told, in blooming color, in violent instruments of disabling hold, a “his” story & a “her” story, together witnessing the abolitionist's call! A not so subtle all in all; the tired refrain needed to gain momentum. Enter the modern master.
With Poe as his guide, he did decide to outdo his Romantic teacher. Les Fleurs du mal tells it loud & proudly in spoken cadences appreciated equally by French & English speakers. Music in rhyme told to storied sonnet time, a fixture for radiance beyond death. The aural presence of his "laide" would come later during The War (1864).
In the beginning because here we can find the sole remaining petals of a flower refined, a flour refined, bleached & enriched, a grain of salt, or just a pinch, a bloom so fine it defines an era, an epoch, an hour & the noon bells chime.
11. Eating Baudelaire
In French, the work of a poet, or a writer, is called his or her "body." I will attempt to eat the body of Baudelaire.
He dared us to partake of the body, to consume of it whole, to eat the body of evidence cold. Being aware of all the possibilities, all the yellow blossoms of oil producing seed, to garner & relish the meat of the bone, a tonal deaf preparation not understood or well known, to partake of the Lord's body as if it was alive today, as he lives among us in road, street or drive.
Another way of putting it is to say "okay," I don't know, I just found this expression convenient. Eating Baudelaire repairs to the side parlor, where the men discuss mistresses over brandy & cigars, a clubby atmosphere where inhibitions are shared or destroyed by petty cruelties or worse. Dogs suffer a more humane fate beside the whip.
Beating up the poor, because we have no occasion to visit the rich, a new approach to the sick or ill, the skill he applies to the stick employed is commensurate to the rage of the victim. He'll get his, & when he does, the attacker will explain graciously. Please do unto others as you have done to the sorry carcass of me!
Eating Baudelaire because he is delicious, like a steak of horsemeat. A stake in the derby or a bet in the stakes of Belmont, eating him because it might be a sin, because the swan contributes foie gras: a pass of liver fattened by forced feeding...
The appeal of the poetry lies in its emotional tension, a "frisson" (a slight trembling, as a leaf on the branch of a tree), the need to review the latest workings, & a new attitude to the Parisian scenery. America can "go fish!"
As the delicatessen is open to all who window shop, photo shop, or having just bought from the local market, a fish story, a history, the remainders of the day, the deli is free to agree or disagree with our selections inspired by the lay.
Religious are welcome. Join, gather in the feast. Be aware, but don't be scared, the plain vanilla is not spoken for, a more, of St. Thomas, the adoration of the sole, a fish monger cries excitement to behold.
Eating the master because we can, delicious or delightful, the task at hand includes skinning, carving, dicing & julienne, a potpourri of fragrances from flowers grown close at hand, the violet, the mint & the basil, together with cloves from the bulb of garlic tasting endeavors of love & good taste.