Rudy Baron

Seymour

liked forming

the shape of pretzel

bones snapping and cracking

unwinding from his twisted form.

The view from the window

is blocked by a building

absorbing the sun’s rays

drips them onto the sidewalk

form crippled shadows.

The library’s books all contain

identical creases in the spine

patrons opening

to the same page.

If Seymour had an opinion

to all this

he would let it be known

through verbal ejaculations

or the thunderous tension

of premeditated silence.

The exit over the doorway walks by

a blonde woman

watches the red second hand

pause for one second.

Vacationers watch TV

on the beach

florescent light washes

away figures on the screen.

Seymour offers her a drink

she stares into the glass

listening to rumblings

restless

agitated ice cubes.

Someone drives their heel

into a neighboring toe

screams some

visceral curse

thinking this is a step

in some form of direction.

The air only gets heavy

when the sky ducks behind a cloud

a man with an ugly tie

discusses his breakfast.

Seymour contemplates his existence

as a superhero

while thumbing his day through

shirts purchased at second hand stores.

The name Slimey, the wet snail 

has been co-opted by a small child

resistant to friendship and acts

of recognizable kindness

by wrinkled relatives.

She can’t dance! Never could!

the last line of a job evaluation

puts to rest any chance

of upward mobility.

Seymour

acknowledges

the eyes close

the curtain opens to dream

the knock of familiarity.

Rudy Baron © 2009

Popcorn

Popcorn is yellow

or is it white -

“I don’t quite remember”

she cried.

If you do, call

If you don’t, call anyone.

Have you got a dime?

I’ll ask the man in the purple

pajamas and fuzzy slippers.

He smiles and winks,

shows me a quarter,

requires I do a magic trick.

Johnny!

It was pepper on my cheerleading

pom-poms this time

I wish mom would leave him

in the yard, so mean

crime and slime

all is grime

la la la la

Can I stop singing?

No!

Can I stop saying la?

la la la la

OK, now?

No! Never!

Nigel barks at doctors

doesn’t like them

feeling the pain of probing

arthritic vertebrae

“They’re going to cure you”

his wife yells from a 3rd floor fire escape.

The only question she ever asked

was “What’s wrong?”

The blinds at the corner tailor

are too short

a great temptation

for zealous, rampant peeping Toms -

the line goes around the corner

begins at the newspaper stand

where children

sell overpriced lemonade.

Can you follow up with that?

Can you get back to me?

Can you please repeat every word

I’ve ever spoken?

Can you please tell me

exactly what I mean?

Can you move aside?

Can you please let me through?

This summer has seen a rise in shells

washed up on the beach.

Elderly men pay boys

to throw them back

hoping to slow the tides

and the erosion of time.

I’ll have a cup of coffee

apologize for an early departure

the TV remote is dead

and my eyes don’t dance anymore.

A flickering shadow

trees tangoing in moonlight

fading music of the wind.

Rudy Baron © 2009