Friday, December 17, 2010

First Lines

   These are not finished works, but rather the first few lines of pieces that could be good if they had more content, or better phrasing, or were written by somebody else who was good at, well, you know, poetry.


Until the sun pokes
The big red corner
Of its eye into the horizon,
It ain't morning.


Farmer Kent's electric fence
Failed beside the graveyard.
Now cattle graze where headstones praise;
Caretaker's job got hard.


    I hitchhiked up to Huntington, Indiana this morning to speak with former Vice President Dan Quayle. At Thorpe Creek, near the Lapel exit, Julian Assange pulled over in his bass-thumping Escalade to offer me a lift. I climbed aboard, hearing moans from the back seat.
    "Enough," Assange hissed, "We've got company."
    Louis Farrakhan and Debbie Schlussel halted what appeared to be a torrid make out session to greet me, although he left his hand on her thigh. We rode up I-69 in virtual silence, the barren, snowy Midwestern fields spreading out endlessly before us.
    "Desolation row," I muttered.
    "No Bob Dylan references," said Assange, "I've already warned Farrakhan."
    We reached Huntington but former Vice President Quayle no longer lives there. Luckily, he happened to be visiting the Museum that bears his name so we caught up with him there. At first he only wanted to admit Farrakhan and Assange, but the former lobbied for Schlussel and Assange lobbied against me, which seemed to impel the ex-VP to be oppositional and let me in.
    The discussions were unforgettable but, of course, classified. Julian will be printing them next week but has until then sworn us to secrecy. We did eat some very flavorful potatoe chips, though.

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