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Poetry of Issue #8                                      Page 24

(of Christine O’Donnell, former Republican Senatorial candidate)

If he can nurture himself, I mean then why am I here for?” the winsome woman hoots through the wide-eyed gap in her toothsome smile. Poor little thing. She feels left out of the ball game, put on the sidelines, a benched fielder pounding an empty mitt, as it were; a spectator in a play conceived without her. “Give me something to do,” she seems to pine, pondering the conundrum of self-indulgent men.

I mused: “What about standing by him in sickness and in health; till wealth do you smart and ask for a divestment of his assets. Okay let’s not get encyclical here. Actually, you’re there like gaudy blossoms pillowing the earth, so foragers on a beeline for your honey can pollinate your pistils. There you go! You mutated to a true evolutionary biologist. How unwittingly Darwinian, so adaptively proactive: we’re here to reproduce. Never mind puritanical prescripts. Even Jehovah instinctively grasped the full scope of that anachronistic monkey business adjudicating in the courtship rooms of Tennessee. Be fruitful and multiply. Put aside your right-wing leaning dictates on the one hand, or right winging left-wingers who leave Freud on the burner of their percolating concoctions: we’re here to reproduce. You grow, girl! You’ve the right of way into his heart, albeit wrong roots of reason.

Poor little seething cauldron of a pressure cooker. You’re leery of being outsourced by resourceful minds; displaced by the machinery at hand. Look at the blight side. It affords only a small penchant of stock images with minimal interest. It yields no crops, no returns for future generations to profit from. Indeed, no generation. Their consummate executors resignedly bequeath our sun no burgeoning patrimony. Their antsy handiwork’s passively produced, as it were, on fanciful copiers; digital transfers of synthetic pictures on disposal CD’s in a cut and dried rubber plant.

Indeed. What are you there for? You’re Hush Puppies as he toes the line, plush carpeting in his homebody, blooming tulips on the table of his membranes, a noodling bowl of soup to spoon with; a hot cup of meme sweetened with honey, a dash of lemon crossing his T with an eye on his doting sensibilities to aid his misconception. You’re there to keep hm aligned with the species and to mind the p’s and q’s of your suffragette set. You’re the picturesque window opening up to spin the loom of his woolly imagination, clear eyes in stormy weather and the belle’s tether that draws him out of his caged complacency to stalk your wild side.”

Frank De Canio