Scott Keeney

SURREALISM DU JOUR

— Monday —

O kernel, my kernel,
slick kernel of corn,
sun yellow and strong
and rolling around
in the puffy thought
bubbles of every
young American poet.


— Tuesday —

“Who knows anyone who owns
an old silk hat?”

The bachelorette buried naked
under a thousand different hats.

She wrote poems about scarves
but wasn’t compelled by hats.

Who could claim not to know
what the snow man can do?


— Wednesday —

The black lab barking
in the direction of some trees.
A nail falling from a cloud.
The house buzzing with bees.

It goes like this for weeks,
until finally the dog no longer
exists, and the trees move on
to a greener foreclosure.


— Thursday —

A clock on which the hour hand
circles faster than the minute hand:

They who sleep in antique trunks
and dream erotic cartoon skunks.

A mirror in which the face reflected
is half-jackal, dirty, resurrected:

They who wink like Shaolin monks
as they leave the world to its oral funks.


— Friday —

An ink blotch that resembles a pussy or a skull,
a crucifix of ants on the floor,
a bowl filled with water
over which men and women alike
hover in their own mortal way—
O stories of evolution! O bathroom stall!


— Saturday —

Smoke cigarettes on a mossy rock.
Blow kisses at the morning moon
and perhaps pull down your pants—
after all, you are young and lunge

“like crazy.”

If you are less than a continent away
from the one that you love, find
a stranger and relinquish control,
for your death trap will soon be home.

Remember: advice is just advice.

First, your fingers will be screwdrivers,
and then, if you’re ready, purple flowers
that smell fresh as vinyl. Now grab
a cloud and hold on. It’s time.


— Saturday Night —

“My hair is so jostled
and perfectly windblown,
if I am not a poet
at the height of my powers . . .

I see clouds like asterisks
and cornfields of cars
lining the epic simile streets.
I hear coffee brewing and smell

people fucking in Dumpsters—
poets really—who believe
they have been swallowed
by whales and must be saved.”


— Sunday {i} —

What would you like to drink?
I’m growing old fast.
There is nothing more momentous than marriage,
and having a child, and death.
Tape my mouth, I double dare you.
Everything is impossible,
but there are many things that must be stopped.
Frogs croak and soldiers moan
when they’ve had their legs blown off.
These days, at least, it doesn’t snow
in summer, though sometimes it does
in the desert. Old, older . . .
Who will take my bones to the cleaner?
Mr. Experience with his corncob pipe?


— Sunday {ii} —

When you look out the window and see
the ocean breaking down
like an already stressed-out parent
who just learned that her child was killed in a crash,
you can’t yourself get too excited.
There will be other days, days like these
as the song goes. Or, there won’t be.
One moment you’re at the family reunion
going to the net and spiking
the volleyball under the August sun,
the next you’re on the ground vomiting
beer and corndogs, your hands like plastic
flowers trying to hold your chest
from caving. Yes, it’s a fine thing, this snow.

Location:	New Milford, Connecticut
Email:	scottkeeney@sbcglobal,net
Publications:	Columbia Poetry Review, Dicey Brown, Mid-America Poetry Review, Milk, Mudfish, Ribot, Rio Grande Review, Shampoo, Skanky Possum, Whiskey Island Magazine

- December 2003 - Translations of Peace Limbs Sacred Ground Surrealism Du Jour Winter Flowers Mourning has its season as all things have Paint Job, July 2001 sword lily Tetragrammaton