ANXIOUS

1

I saw a fortuneteller, and now I’m feeling all turvy. They’re the whiz at putting your head on spin cycle. I’m taking a sit. Why go throw yourself into the mystic waters? On a whim, it was. A jaunty whimsy or a roll-the-dice all mimsy. It was the music bang rattled my spine as I passed the come hither sign. Wait, where was this? A store on the block where everything is schlock—Boban The All Seeing. He of a bandy-legged gypsy type fella? Say like a tall man, swarthy, hard-soled boots, leather cap, and coat. Shivered the air with a cavern-deep voice to make the hairs on your neck tingle, had he? You’ve been there? No, I heard he’s the talk about. Close enough, June. What’s the gist, Mick? He said I should leave town. For good; no more butter on my toast? A few sunrises to sunsets, undetermined. You a solo Marco Polo? Yup. What’d he see in the murky waters floating your boat? There’s writing in the sky, and the edges won’t meet, so the fit will rip. That’s crazy. What if it isn’t, Jill? Meaning? Bad. How bad, Brad? Bad, bad. Okay, be serious, like with the heavy balls stirring a pall? Sorry, just giving it to you straight. You want to kill me? Don’t be stupid. Leaving me lonesome for when the fit rips, tell me true, Lew. I blanked all black at his words, whirling fiery discs above our cozy house, glowing hot and where I go they follow. You saying the big swarthy saw it? True how it goes, it goes.

Bullshit, Omar. He didn’t put out mystic jive; you’re going off to plank some lolly’s dolly for a crotch-strutting folly. Way over the top; think of the psycho, no-joke wobbly perambulations endured on your behalf with brio, pussy willow. Let’s try this, say I, not thee, sashay down the parkway, away? My parsnip, on your own, so many things can twist your sarong—lose your grip, then a trip, and a bang on your head. Thinkn I, your inner talk show gronks it: oopsy daisy, helpless little Juanita snags her pump and thumps her once pretty little head? Sure, could be like you said. Think you this, Dick, needs this no foreign hand but close to home, tippity toe comes a sneaky Joe and dents my chapeau. Whoa, not me meine frau. The deal of why, in the needle’s eye, is sealed. My helpmate and protector goes poof, and this half of until death do us part remains under the marital roof? Yeah, like I said, he said. Neat, very neat this parting from the conjugal teat. But deep in the pocket of my healing feeling, safe you’ll be.

I’ll go then. That’s the way it is, is it? Pretty much. Do I see a suitcase humming a tune ready to swoon, tied with balloons, just there on the bottom stair? You’ve always been a wiz; yes, it is. That’s quick, even slick. We can’t take the risk; remember the fiery disks. You want me here when you return, Jim, but what if ages pass, like in the epic poetic? When I draw the latch and swing wide the oaken door, what if you’re marked by voyages indefinable, a face askew, unrecognizable? Don’t get your drift, Gwendolyn, I can’t play our song on the mandolin. How will you give me a sign you’re mine? What would one be? Up to you, Stew. Say a buss on your full, inviting lips? That’s a start. With my arms about you in a squeeze, verging a tease. Better. My hand shifts nether light as a feather. Enough, said Ned; my ears turn red, but save that Cuz, in a hurry is your buzz. So true. Oh, one more thing Hugh, about that home-at-last rat-a-tat-tat on the venerable entry. The knowing of you and me can have a hitch that’s a bitch. You’re thinking a codicil got missed in the fiery haste? I’ll know you—if I’m here. Are you going to steal the story, Morning Glory? Ahoy Troy, the hero on the heaving deck, can slip beneath the waves, tossed and lost. Always ready with the poke, my little banshee. That’s me.

 2

I’m anxious about the day to come. You’re always itchy twitchy. No, this is different, very diff diff. How diff? I got that looky look; the grab you by the short hairs sear that we’ve sorted your shit on the high beams and noted it in the book. Uh oh, Joe. I know, I know. But you did go Jimmy crack, wikey whack on their virtual sit sack. Yeah, but only on the down low to the need to know. Get this: I walked by Freddy, Freddy wears a teddy’s office; he and Jackie Lacky were tête-a-têtey, turning green with the mean. Sonny boy, they’re fixin’ on making you their toy. It was all I could not to go all boogaloo before the clock struck next. Wait, maybe Fred and Jack are desiring a floppity flop on the hop and pop, and the picture’s skew is not toward you. It was no doe-eyed dippy patty cake, but a fang and twang drill for the kill. So yo, a sighting of no soft around the eyeball hints, but a stick, pointy in the glint. If it’s so and mighty large on the waders, will the water go. The day ahead looks in the underparts, all tart in the crikey and pretty harsh in the downward-faced glum for you, my chumpy chum.