Like it Matters by Nancy Dzina

(is a poem within the poem AutoBiOblit)

Unblanked paper deceives. Quineauesque

introduction: disbosom. Pan-o-ram. Cotton Mather

implies licking, saucy, underlying substance. Chops.

Poetry got spendy. Losses may be paid by removal,

exposure, but not zero-sum style. Not prim.

Striptease, strip poker, speak easy but don’t

give it away. Hatta’s game is always afoot.

Starting gate is finish line. In the velodrome

of writing prompts, we are all of us going

nowhere. X-P13 AAG-TGC-ACG-GCC-TAT-AAG

on earth, all “rosy of glow” every time.

Where eternal repetition  means more than

broken record, form alone gives me

the slip. Probably pink. Imagine an ellipsis

no longer material. It’s Carl Sagan time, &

a no-brainer down to the letter. I know

therefore I am Superfluous Girl. Why try?

Card Tricks (by Dzina after JKD & Lisa P)

After JKD's "Time These Wars..."

Lucky as a penny, now I can turn 'em
heads or tails you get your wish.
Lacta alea est when it's deadlinetime,
our time's up and I got this circle it's
pretty black & white. Looking
from the outside will cost you
and don't hope for future mes
that stick. The hourglass is cracked,
the sand is down, and I'm all business. Professional
I don't care. I'll tear you apart, defoliate
you, defy your evergreen for green.
My future secure no thanks to the
main channel. God bless my Laundry
Hotel.  I play my cards right,
there won't be no future to rectify.
No need to catch body parts with
a net, once most famous everything's
available on purpose thanks to
breakthroughs in science your eye
can see that make a pretty penny
making pretty one day. I call the
citadel Mall Noir, and all flagship
procedures lead to my Laundry Hotel,
where there's no need to check out
ghosts of architecture past, no archive
to explore, just life as a zen kitty
out of the closet. Meow!

It’s like he said (s)he says

Guinness harpness rumdark (coffee).  More than enough sans tan.  That moth didn’t make it, flirting with that flame in our arroyo. The good news is not all was lost: spider watch, wait, stagnant as patterns like ours. Yummy. A trap unspoken, unspeakably loved to death. I need to finish this game, pin the tail on. Get some lawyers. Eat. Yodle, “Craig has a list that’s broken.”  Hand to trace-lace-bind, center stuff, burlap pokeydead center, look ma no hands. Tattletales don’t exist if yr rich. Whose dropsy keeps our system so blottobloatado? Whatchanow? Whodunnit? (This whore’s in pieces). Bleedwork box leftbehind leaves us dna-denied and blind.. Had she a future past this picture less-than -perfect post-greeting, I would have taken care of her. Uh-huh. Nothing more to do but whine, whinny, whimper, whistle. Trent Reznor’s turn.

She coulda stammered... (JKD)

*

She coulda stammered anything, but straight-arrowed me with “Is grief porous as a pin cushion?”

After Dzina’s Needle Trading Off, with help from Laura Mullen’s PieceWork (with parts from Lisa Pasold) & Rufo Quintavalle’s Gold.

Plum outta autofills, here in her harp-sign-and-signal-less labyrinth wondering—which hole to plug, which gap or griffon clawed into the gaffaw? I could not laugh dark enough to get the bile up outta here, her heralding a blind center, a hokypoke stem of a tendril choke-hold. I was watching, waiting, wandering round the gate thinking whichever one of us gets pricked— could be a rhetorical ring to pattern the trap not to speak (to), see, know, how to pin the tail on. Or sigh. Her yodle. Then a yammerin’ clamour whatchr lookn at cephalothorax? The lick of her neck, a candlestick. I got to wonderin’, what’s it take?, or, to break? Hand to trace-lace-bind, center stuff, staple, stroke. You’d a known it was me, my folded grammar, tattletale forgotten, coat in the wind, wishing for a chintz dress glitzy nightshift. Echo of who’s got the dropsy? Betcha she could take us all in that hopscotch match. This crash course six shooter hold up drawback to kick is just a mishmash of watchnknow? wouldchanow? Whodunbeenit? There, where I cut back the years, say “go to pieces”. The patched bleedwork, box leftbehind of yellows. I suppose, had she a forwarding address, past this advent advantageous calendar’s seasonal greeting, I would have been a taker. No. No no more. As she wrote it: “Seems a seams been lying in the wait, lined up ahead, flagging the signless poledancer back down under us.” Sure, I mighta responded, cause after all it seems I never could stop that automatic capitalization from defining time. And yes, lady, it really is someone else's turn. Uh-huh. So, blathering up the foam in the fountain, the vanilla or bubbly eucalyptus, round the bend, to turn then turn again to come, enfin, to a pause, a price, a plate platter onto which I give her over. And will you take care of her? Heel, hell, howl now don’ com’n back, ‘k? Y’hear? Breaks me a bone, deep as marrow exposed syntax, to know the direction that dart was heading. Nothing more to do but whine, whinny, whimper, whistle. A happy tune? Or a harp? The needle was pointing due West. Shoulda followed it.

needle trading off (grief is good)

>>>"Piece Work" (Laura Mullen>>>LisaP, JKD) &

>>>"Gold" (RQ)

porous pin cushion plum outta autofills

which hole to plug, which’n gets pricked,

it’s a rhetorical o ring dummy pattern

shit trap not to speak (to), see, know

whatchr lookn at cephalothorax pin the tail

yumdummie like child candieneck

lace blind center stuffed stapled bloke

hokeypoke folded fold it’s a it’s a

it’s a hopskotch, watchnknow where

yr toes go, patch pieces, bleedwork

which box to stick, which ball to kick

one up one down open close frontward

fwhap! black right leftbehind yellow

nomo advent advantageous calendar

seasoned f'n greedy taker no no no more 

seams line up ahead flaggn signless to

stop automatic capitalization defining

default autopilot muslin itchy dressie

bessie once upon a bassackwards time

(scratch/   balls)     
bun(ga) bun(ga) lady
it's someone else's turn.