FOLLOWUP STORY

How many lash­es to make price water house
As my mas­cara runs down an alley?

He’s no fun, he falls right over.

Stand­ing where I am, think­ing about where I’m not.
A sad part, but of the show.

Sit­ting for his portrait,
What would be
The oppo­site of Dori­an Gray?

And in the evening movies from the recent past feel
More ridicu­lous than those from fur­ther back,
Prob­a­bly because we actu­al­ly lived through those times.

Hands clasped mut­ter­ing apotropa­ic incantations,
Recit­ing false apo­logues to ward off fright­en­ing moods.

Or maybe the apo­logues are true.

Ety­mo­log­i­cal­ly, to play the ocarina
Is to blow the goose.
Where does that infor­ma­tion get us?

The tern on the wind­lass knew a disaster
When she saw one
But she was in the dumps and didn’t care.

EMERGENCY ROPE LADDER

If you’re in a big hur­ry there’s no time like the present.

The chim­ing wants to take over
Not just the bel­fry but the town.

Turn your high beams down.

At the toy store a wealth of square pegs.

As I said to my crip­pled wife, Peg, I said,
The dark­ness sur­rounds us.
Light a can­dle she said.

Your busi­ness sense annoys me
Just as my lack there­of annoys you.

I know you’re bleed­ing but I’m wear­ing my best suit.

The fruit flies per­pet­u­at­ing a per­pet­u­al orgy
So fast did their hun­gry generations
Tread each oth­er down.

Bring me my worsted coat, the least decorative.

He’s a smooth oper­a­tor but with­out the standard
Fil­tra­tion sys­tem life becomes terrifying.

Truth is of less util­i­ty than lies.
Why should one uti­lize rather than use?
We can only surmise.

In my haste to get dressed I had ignored my pants size.

Let’s stay up all night and watch the sunrise.

EVERYDAY PRODIGIES

The Lament for Clemen­tine whines like the wind in the valley,
A dis­em­bod­ied voice over the old address system,
Despite the amplification.

Imag­ine a six-foot-tall four­teen-year-old ballerina.

The tar­nished plant bug,
Famous for its appellation,
Can’t be tak­en anywhere,
It’s too rapacious.

To steal from the rich and give to oneself
Is the high­est ide­al of a man in the dumps.

Glass wash­boards and mat­tress­es of the dead.

Is this just anoth­er ruse to get me into your attic
Full of arti­cles indef­i­nite in the dark?

Now you know how crazy I am about you.

Dense and scary too.

But we’ve got all the time in the world
To allow famil­iar­i­ty to breed contempt.

Does fail­ure keep one young?
As though this were some oth­er time?

Like a lime wild from the branch,
Some­thing to bite into
With an overde­ter­mined stride.

It might sound like the Tow­er of Babel
Or lean like the Tow­er of Pisa

But it sure is fun,

Like a play­ing card clamped in the wheel of a kid’s bike.

Ian Ganas­si’s poet­ry, prose and trans­la­tions have appeared in numer­ous lit­er­ary mag­a­zines, includ­ing Ploughshares, New Eng­land Review, Saw­buck, Octo­pus, Black­box Man­i­fold, and Fogged Clar­i­ty, among many oth­ers. Excerpts from an ongo­ing col­lab­o­ra­tion with a painter friend have appeared in numer­ous gal­leries and online. Images from the col­lab­o­ra­tion can be found at www.thecorpses.com.