Friday, September 7, 2012

Richard Huttel


Her subway tokens are adorable
As Baby Toonies. Crackpot inventor
Me hereby commissions genetically
Enhanced spuds to meet up with cushions
And upholsterers for the dawning of
The Age of Potato Couch. Memories
Are made of red & white mailbox, Willie
Nile’s “Vagabond Moon,” arugula, her
Wind song plays on my mind, flat on my back,
Legs dangling over the southern edge of
The Avenue of the Islands’ pier, heaven scents.

Her wind song turns out to be not quite so
Memorable after all when I see the news
That day about Natasha Richardson
On my way back to Chicago. Have yet
To be persuaded by the quantum kids
To a string theory better than the one
Connected to paper cups. I can’t help it if
Bob Dylan still doesn’t have a Nobel
Prize for literature. In my haste the
Transit transfer flies out of my pocket
So I pluck it right out of the air and
Subway agent says, “Baby, you magic!”

Urgent billboards herald ONLY A FEW
LEFT! in Memory Lanes subdivision,
Leaving me nostalgic for the history
Of my future. Pass the bongo drums and
Call me Babalu! I heart alignment.
And I’m humming it: her wind song passing
Over me again like hawk shadow.

Richard Huttel is a Chicago poet. His chapbooks include The Evolution of the Rutherfords to Lumpie (ep press), Rainy Day Cliffhanger (Proper Tales Press) and The Be Seeing You Variations (Surrealist Poets' Gardening Assoc.) He has read in Chicago, Toronto, Ottawa, and elsewhere.

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