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Chusid 8

Morgan the Gigolo was whaling when a windy and ripply mahogany rush blew a child of the novelty into his face. Lauren Z overheard conversations of a quintet from the east and west, saying something about an anthem for a galactic bounce baby from the corner to the block. A stereotypical New York youth found happiness in thinking anything I do is all right, including my weird little birthday. It’s a crime when Mars meets a formal girl at Linden Place, where Charles Mingus is remembering Rockefeller at Attica and changing. Marijuana deathsquads were trucking the Day of the Dead over to the Mahavishnu, when suddenly an orchestra started dancing the Dance of Maya and the inner mounting flame burned Joe Frank’s seventh karma on the other side. A vanishing twin felt that truth is boring when you choose your own adventure, so she got some angels of porn and some natural born losers to be alone together and tell the truth about Hollywood. Limbs of a pine jumped into a fire. Let’s all go to the lobby to blast covers to smithereens and be only a memory of green thoughts. The shapes of common coyotes helped things to drag Birdland onto the continent. Mrs. Mackenzie may have been society’s child, but her rotting spring sprouted wretched wings and dropped succotash on the invention of Monterey blues in another dimension.

(Thanks to Irwin Chusid, disc jockey at WFMU, Jersey City, New Jersey, for the use of his playlist. This Absurdist poem originally appeared in Over the Transom #29, 2017)

R. Bremner__


At the Wishing Well

At the wishing well
I throw my pennies
and wish
for an escape from
memory, before it traps me
and beats me senseless
in its daily routine.

R. Bremner__

I Balance a Stubborn Life

I balance a stubborn life
on the head of a bent pin.
It tilts to one side,
Never the other.
On a muddy path
to nowhere in particular
I slip, and the balanced life
falls into the muck
while the bent pin
pierces the bottom
of a plastic jug
containing the stewed
innocence that once
was me.

  R. Bremner__


I don’T Know How All This Aging Happened.

I don’t know how all this aging happened.
Was I so busy
that I didn’t notice?
Was I sleeping for years?
These creases, these bumps -
they are not me.
Who put them there?
Whose body is this?
It’s not mine.
And why can’t I remember
getting this old?
I am young and fancy free.
I do whatever I want
whenever I want.
Elbow, stop aching!
I want to play tennis!
I can’t be this old when
only yesterday I was walking
the streets, hopping bar to
café, carousing till dawn.
Wasn’t it just yesterday?
And why can’t I remember it?
Who’s this old guy
who traded his body for mine?
I want mine back!

  R. Bremner__

Coffee Is a Wonderful Thing:

Coffee is a wonderful thing:
The smell of it in the morning,
the taste, the burning hot sen-
sation on one’s tongue. The sense
of accomplishment which comes
from brewing good coffee.
The satisfaction, as its scent
stems from the cup to your nostrils,
of knowing, “This is my work. I
have brewed good coffee.”

No matter what may occur in
the world, no matter what pressures,
crimes, injustices, evils crush
down on us – as long as it is
possible for one to sit with a
cup of good coffee, there is reason
for hanging on to life.

  R. Bremner__


Listen to the Night.

Listen to the night.
It knows your name
and waits.

Confide in the night.
Its ears can’t be seen
but its heart hears well.
Your truths are obsolete
as the past day’s sun.
It is the lies you are
that it loves.

Waken to the night.
It knows your game
and plays.

  R. Bremner__