I‘ve got a fat file of knock-off rhymes that I’ve punched out and posted up, now and then, here and there. Not a serious effort in the queue. O.K. Maybe one, at most three, and if any; an accident.
Because happenstance is just how they happen. I begin to hiccup on a phrase, or note a novel, to my notion, word juxtaposition. Then I’m in some aural cul-de-sac that roundabouts throughout the day. Walking the dog, reading the NYT, watching C-Span, awaiting Snz, the expression or abstraction becomes a carousel of conceit. An ear-worm of ego. Let go!
So I pencil up without direction. Map free. No message to dispatch. Just a mumble to be rid of.
Some years ago, on a warm spring night, having drinks with friends, and watching Snz sport new seasonal fashion, I heard the words fetish and favor used in different sentences, hours apart. And fetish and favor encircled me for about a week. It wasn’t just the alliteration, although it wouldn’t shut up. What really spoke to me was the unspeakable. What fetish do you favor? So I whipped out my pencil. And in a half hour I would detox the favor/fetish jones and post it digitally.
If I favor your leg
are you subject to fetish
when it’s your gait
I’m really queer for
if I amend that to say…
it’s how you carry yourself,
walk the talk.
do I lie, dissemble