DECONSCRIPTION-Writings of Curtis Cottrell 2000s Poems
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Bug Out Last week I found
a wasp in my bathroom. I was brushing my teeth,
and as I looked into the mirror,
I saw her hovering
overhead. I ducked down and headed
out the door Slamming and securing
it behind me. How could I get rid
of her? If I went in there With a rolled-up newspaper
for hand-to-wing combat, I would need to make
a decisive first strike Or risk the possibility
of getting stung. Or, worst of all, make
a total fool of myself By breaking the light
fixture, By knocking the clock
or a bottle into the toilet, or By dislodging the single
nail holding up my shaving mirror. I could spray Black
Flag Hot Shot poison Or fumigate the room
with a burning bag, But the window is sealed
shut with black plastic, So how could I ventilate
it To keep from choking
myself? And there is no guarantee
that those toxins Would drive her out
or make her panic-- They could only back
her into a corner. Think like the bug!
What will attract her? How can she find the
way out? She just keeps hovering
around the light. The light! That's got
to be it. All I have to do is
turn out the light; Then she can find the
grate under the tub Where she came in from
under the house. If the grate is the
only source of light, She will be drawn to
it and find her way out. I braced myself as
I made my plan: I had to open the door,
Then stoop down to
close it, Turn around as quick
as I could, Reach up to pull the
chain To turn out the light
over the sink, Then blaze like the
living daylight To get the dickens
out of Dodge! I operated just as
planned And everything went
smoothly With the wasp retreating
to a corner To watch me execute
my maneuver. Then I waited for about
an hour Until nature's call
became imperative And as I apprehensively
opened the door To gain access to the
toilet, I saw that she was
finally gone. The wasp has her fated
place, But it is on the outside.
I am glad I did not
kill her Or make a fool of myself
in the attempt. Now I can watch her
out my back screen door Pollinating the Heavenly
Blue morning glory vines Climbing to refoliate
the rotting hackberry tree That died in last year's
drought. She was no mad hell-bent
assassin Angrily assaulting
and attacking. Only a lost wandering
nomad Trying to find her
way back home. All I had to do to
restore Peace was learn to
think like the bug. A few days later, Another wasp flew into
my living room. When it landed
on the telephone, I smacked it with
a rolled-up newspaper. It's funny how standards
change With a first strike
capability. Dogstar When Plato's dog died, He wrote this little
poem As an epitaph, "You were once my morning
star Now Hesperus leads
the shades." The porch is Stella's Equalizer making her As tall as a man. When strangers walk
by our house, She barks with tail
bristling high. People often ask "What kid of dog is
Stella?" "That's a lyin' dog." "What's a lion dog?"
"If I Said I knew, I'd be
lyin'!" Stella has a strong Sense of duty even
though She may wander off And she's too old and
lazy To get on up when she
barks. Stella's ten years
old; I am almost fifty-three: Will I be the first? She has already survived; Can I take another
loss. Sometimes I think that Stella is a little
girl Wearing a fur coat. She wants to come out
of it; She just can't find
the zipper. I hear Stella's voice Talking to me from
within: Just eye contact says We have a bond between
us That makes me know
what she wants. Male dogs are buddies Always running off
to play. Stella stays by me; She's not going anywhere Without her man at
her side. She hates cheap shampoo: Some Looney Toons bubblegum Made her roll in grass Substituting any scent For something she cannot
stand. She steps on my foot To signify impatience: "What took you so long To come to the door
when I Have been waiting in
the heat?" She's a drama queen Getting so histrionic Whining and moaning With that telltale
tremolo That tells me her feelings
are hurt. Barking an alarm-- The porch is Miss Stella's
stage. What melodrama, Her stoic antistrophe: This star upstages
herself. Stella likes to rub Against the foot of
my bed While I rub her
back With her nose under
covers To get a whiff of my
feet. Stella likes good cheese Havarti with herbs
and bree Make her smack her
lips. She appreciates a taste Of the finer things
in life. Stella does not like Anything with tomato Such as spaghetti, But she'll make an
exception For hot chili con queso. Stella moves her paw Over her eye to tell
me To turn off the light. This can also signify "Turn off the television." "Good morning, Stella!" Echolalia: her
yawn Mimics what I said. Her eyes mirror the
deep love I have for my companion. She sleeps on her back Grooving to the radio Sprawling supine dreams Of chases without an
end Witnessed by subvocal
barks. Full moon equinox: The graveyard is now
dog town. Most dogs go to mate; Stella goes out to
kick ass To show she's queen
of Green Street. Stella was chasing A fertile mongrel in
heat, A circle of males Baying loud in hot
pursuit Of a bitch they'll
never mount. The virgin huntress Forsakes all other
pleasure For concentration On slyly stalking the
prey Then pouncing fast
for the kill. Stella is a freckled
pooka brindled fluffy reddish
brown and blonde with tail flying triumphant
in the breeze like the crest on Achille's
helmet half is irish setter
descended from Swift's
paramour who remembers
the words upon the
windowpane the other half was
a chinese princess whose vicious tongue
condemned her to an eternity
of barking cunning linguists have
suggested the modest proposal
that one syllable of
chow-chow signifies kau as canine
while the other means
food thus becoming the dog you eat asians also call this
a lion dog because of her loyal
devotion she's guardian to the
king more faithful than
all his wives she puffs up her mane
and a ruff on her rump
and waves her flossy
tail like a cavalry flag
this tail is often
depicted in classic iconography
as wrapped around a
globe which she jealously
protects she doesn't like other
dogs sniffing around her
tail and she'll tell every
female to stay away from my
man very intelligent and
obedient you can tell she's
a pooka by her wink when she
wants you to do something
for her back dogs bark but
front dogs can control strays
by eye contact when she wants something
she gets my attention
with affection then leads my point
of view to coincide with hers
if I take good care
of her she could be good for another ten years
or so then I wonder how she'll taste with sweet
& sour sauce Mohican James Fenimore Cooper
V was the scoutmaster Who taught us Indian
Lore and Aviation Technology. Both involve the idea
of emancipation through flight Just as Hawkeye Deerslayer
Pathfinder Natty Bumppo Fled every oncroach
of orderly civilized urban life. Mr. Cooper quit his
job as a geologist To build an airplane
in his garage-- And not just any airplane But a plane of wood
and glue Without any metal or
screw Except for the top-mounted
engine Pushing back toward
the rudder. You should have seen
how it flew! Mr. Cooper told us
at the powwow How Indians got eagle
feathers-- Not with aimless arrows
shot aloft-- But by baiting pits
with carrion-- Catching the big birds
in blankets. When Mr. Cooper
grew out his beard, I thought he was bold
and cool. To me, he was never
ever a fool Though my father thought
him weird. Because his life has
influenced mine, I hope he's not the
last of the line. |
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