Defenestration

Philosophical Sonnet I.

By Bill Mehlman

____________________

I.

My seeds surge up from balls of brass – oh,

I'm no falsetto, I'm pure basso –

Drawn out by you from their Sargasso

They speed through vas-deferential loops.

I love your dewy, black-fringed – oops,

That is, your eyes, like Betty Boop's.

No art can limn you, not Picasso's

Finest etchings, pastels, nor impastos,

Nor Pliestocene man down in Lascaux,

Not tones from strings nor reeds in twos.

And for the words poor bards needs use?

Best you can do, these sorry screeds, Muse?

No help for us from the nine Mnemonides;

Let's keep it simple: we'll fuck on Fridays.

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Bill Mehlman says: “Tired, restless, middle-aged family man. Highly prestigious, and wholly unused, English degree. Professional chef and legal proofreader. Yankee fan; student of coastal navigation. Goals in life: make enough money to buy a table for 3-cushion billiards, a home with a room big enough to accommodate it, a vintage Herreschoff catboat and an International Harvester Scout, both fully restored. I'm very spiritual. I may open a hot dog stand soon, and, if that flies, another jazz club.”