The Concept of Sandwiches
by Adam Gaucher
Wednesday, October 02, 2002
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Indirectly. As in:
Anything I ever write reflects
everything at all times. So yes,
it is your fault the folk
goddess flows in peeling a lemon
with skinny and blistered finger tips.
It's your fault that I am
legally only half a human being.
It's your fault the most
cautious of Hungarian dancers
will be one who frees
our parking meters in song:
The Sexy Blues.
A splashing waltz floods the dance
floor with a glorious four fanatic
generation. Beauty stems from
the perception of ugliness, and I'm
talking to Liszt over coffee
about the benefits of being born
during the French and Indian war.
Lilith jacks a fag from my
murderous lips with a blink
and a kiss and I am content in
lighting that cigarette. We stand
dancing, naked to the jazz in
the garden of hep cat rhythm
and magic, stealing the show
smoking while the other hand is
busy in snap. Where to sit. We
sit where sitting's pleasing.
So yes, it is your fault a million
dollars is the rust between
your teeth and sunset. It's
your fault a chosen artist stitches
up a pair of pants out of one
hundred and twenty seven banana
peels. And you can not deny the
part you played in a drag
queen's wish to build sand castles
on the moon. This is everything
at all times indirectly, as in:
Creation; a most unstable mass
of drunken culture and
satisfaction. Witness Jack
Ruby drinking tea with Leonard
Cohen. My tea, again the saliva
in your cup. To make the cut,
be seen with imbeciles only.
In this manner swollen eyes
will sting thick and deeper.
I bring forth another
pebble in your shoe. (Sexy
jazz madness cats). Preoccupy
your minds for the twelve foot
broom handles with no vaseline.
Three cheers for the square rhyming
genius who's fortune lies within
his lamb chop arisen situations.
Only a more perfect broken creature
can understand the concept of the
sandwich. My sandwich, again the
poem in your heartbroken emotion.
Who's fault is it that a camera
angle makes a snake charmer
melt? Who's fault is it that
the road to success is lined
with caged beasts and circus
acts? Who's fault is it that
practice leans toward perfection
only to change colours in the sun?
Your fault. Indirectly, as in: