ON READING A STEPHEN DUNN POEM WHILE THE WAITRESS WITH THE PEARL NOSE-RING PREPARES MY COFFEE
One doesnʼt want to be heard that way this time or any time; for instance, those purple mountains as the sun goes down really are purple is the very thing I donʼt want to talk about. Now take your nose...with the pearl ring running through it.... Where does it itch? Is your hair purple or shocking pink today? And your tattoos...who comes to kiss the boo-boos away? Five hundred years or more ago cow-bells brought all the “boo-boos” out to be lined up on the street for delivery boys to come and cart them away. I donʼt really want to talk about that either. But remnants pop up like hopeful toads after an unexpected rain in the desert, or a bump in the purple trajectory of the sky. Why, yes, youʼve guessed once more where Iʼm coming from: the immense tergiversation of words veiling the crime scene which was the love scene. We were all there once to touch these substances like a shock in transit to the heart opening tegument to tegument. Where did it go?