h o m e........

p a s t   i s s u e s....

s u b m i s s i o n s....

l i n k s

CHARLES HARPER WEBB

BLUE DOO-WOP, YELLOW TANGO

The sky rolls open its garage, and long black clouds 
 rumble outside.  They run on picnics, 
balls games, parades, burning them all into H2O.  
        The more that falls, the higher the grass grows, 

the more room trout have to play strike-the-mayfly, 
       slurp-the-caddis, spit-the-hook.  The Sailfish
Clan of New Guinea believe their gods speak 
      in colors.  Blood can be eloquent, depending 

where it is, how much, and whose.  The bird-
   of-paradise chatters divine wisdom when it flies.  
Sunrise, for Botswana’s Ndulang Ndulangs, 
     is caused by burning heaven’s black grass, 

on which death and shadows feed.  
 The Yipyipyipyip of Nepal call dawn “a screen 
the mountains hang while Day slips into 
    her sari of gold light.”  The Amazon’s Mumu-

mumu call love “a worm that burrows 
  through the eyes and swells the genitals.”  
Its cure is worse than the disease.  The eyes 
        go blind to beauty, leaking a clear pus:

source of all the troubles in the world.
    Greeks blamed these on a curious girl,  
though Sappho tried, with word-hammers, 
        to beat this thought from the Hellenic mind.   

The leader of India’s Papaou Maumauz decrees 
  that sunrise is not, as once believed, the god 
Rangadan Gangadingdong’s bruised behind, but rain- 
        spirits that dance in pink and indigo. 

Phillies’ shortstop Elio Chacon, scrambling 
   for a fly ball, yelled, Ya lo tengo.  Knowing
no Spanish, his teammate Richie Ashburn crashed 
  into Chacon, and was knocked cold. 
 
Stretched on the grass in center field, Ashburn 
        heard clouds singing “Hernando’s Hideaway,” 
and saw sun-yellow dancers glide, in close embrace, 
      across the flaming Philadelphia sky.

GLOAT

Stormcloud-curtains roll back.  To thunderous
applause, my face beams through.  My ship's breezed in;  
my train's chugged home.  My airplane's made a three-point 

landing on my Chief Detractor's head.
My pipes stop leaking.  My dirty clothes don't stink.  
My roof, about to wolf eight thousand clams, 

repairs itself.  The clams pledge allegiance 
to me.  The wolf does too.  I pitch life's big 
banana peel at a trashcan two football-leagues 

away; it octopuses in.  I frisbee 
Death's lugubrious CD out the window.  
Let it flying-saucer someone else's hair.  

It's not my glass of Kool Aid; not my cup of pee.  
Boo bop shoo wop / boo diddley op wham, 
Boo dingbat / poodley at / doodley ap / scram, 

That's what I say, so that's what everybody 
does.  Thank you Miss Simpson, who impeached me 
as President of the Eighth Grade.  Thank you 

Jim Leatherwood, who made me hip-hop 
out of my own band.  And you, reviewer, 
who turned my book into a frog and made it croak—
  
eat tsetse flies and die!  I wish you well  
eschewed.  Well, well, well, well, it's really true. 
It's happening.  Can't stop me now—not you, 

your parents, or your dog, not a congress 
full of crooked lawyers (to tautologize), 
not your good wishes or bad, your cash 

or carrion, not Army, Navy, Air Force, 
Aquamarines.  Desert Storm was a zephyr 
next to me.  Look behind you.  Look 

ahead, above, below.  Recognize 
that profile, the cut of that jib, 
jab of that jaw, jut of that collar, the scratched 

glasses, rowdy hair, green Safari 
Pants purchased in poorer times?  I'll take 
your Rolls.  You take my bus, boy.  I've arrived.