Hyperrealism
Fire morphs into a Renaissance
warehouse, then speciating hadrosaurs,
planetesimals, and the actual
Big Bang. Typical, says an expert
on debutante coteries.
Politicians fly
yachts over a battery of windmills
aimed at Amsterdam, ermine
turbines on the right flank. Exquisite, says an aesthete
under a sombrero.
Night takes evening by one arm, propels
light across the ring to sag
at a turnbuckle. Raucous gnostics jeer
in the Milky Way's musty Entropic Room. Fall,
says our bogus referee.
A
Gala to Remember
Art-gangs advertised a rumble,
a plein air fray. Out-of-towners flocked
at superbly green lawn, only to be
snuffed when they ignored the adage
that you don't bring an easel to a gunfight.
Even the Homeowner Association fell powerless,
which was okay because John Constable
materialized. Seeped out from his tomb
of nearly two centuries, he meant vengeance.
His post-mortem fame as vigilante
sprang from having grown twelve feet tall
while a specter in Hampstead. Now he
infused life in the broken limbs
of those slain, and restored the innocent,
who ambled off to thank their host
for a lovely time.
Current
Weather
We scientifically surveyed 100 subjects
in a soundproof, windowless room:
34 said it was raining outside; 21 believed it
to be snowing; 18 were adamant
it was clear, the temperature 5 below zero;
14 responded that it was cloudy but well
over 90 degrees; 8 admitted to being unsure
of anything; 3 yelled, Death to canvassers!
2 volunteered to go check actual conditions,
if they could find the door.
A brawl warning remains in effect.
Mark Blaeuer lives near Hot Springs, Arkansas. His poems have
appeared in numerous journals, including Ink Sweat & Tears, Nude Bruce Review,
and SurVision. His collection,
Fragments of a Nocturne,
is available from Kelsay Books.