Saturday, July 21, 2012

Queen Anne's Lace

Flies seem
to enjoy

this funny
pretentious

trampoline
of flower.

I'm watching flies walk
on Queen Anne's lace

(ho-bag flower)

and think for some reason
of Anne Hathaway

(is she really gay?)

She is elegant
and beautiful

and sloe-eyed.
She minces like a fly

sometimes. Quite
lovely. Quaint

toed as some
extinct gazelle,

her dainty snuffle
somehow Victorian.

The flies walk
gingerly across

a white dry-froth sea
of evaporated milk

or across Tim Burton shrooms
these big kids walk

and bounce furiously
on fuck-buckled motel beds

in a burned out structure
I see from the highway.

Some young pogo sticks.
It's been left open.

The fire marshal
must be a crackhead.

This creepy
aesthetic roadside

decision that strikes
me as somehow German

pornographic vagary.
Big Red Spray-Paint Vagina.

Queen Anne's lace
grows right into the rooms.

Flowers are now
the room service.

Motels don't really have
room service. That's

a whore myth.

When heavier bugs,
 bumblebies, land

on the chalkless moon
of Queen Anne's planetoid,

it's a funny wobble kids
like to watch

because it's sexual,
a labret in fuzz.

It's like "The Moonhouse'
inflated on summer fair nights

to teach the littlest kids
how their drunk

parents
(who will also

often act like flies )
experience life

when they're 40
on a strange body,

the globous
funny wobble

of scrambling over
one in panic to answer

a ringing, more
gravitationally stable

telephone.

So the flower presents
a universal

as a particular,
is deeply philosophical

as much as frothy,
light, and horny.

It's pretty much
all of suburbia.

Quiet. Plunder.

It is just a flower.

It is wild.
and it is waste.

6 comments:

  1. Aw, I love Queen Anne's Lace. It's my favorite "weed," though it doesn't smell good. If you turned it into a bedspread I wouldn't like it at all--it would look like one of those ghastly chenille things--but when I see them scattered in an overgrown field with buttercups and Indian paintbrush I'm happy as a clam at high tide.

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  2. They do look so fake stately. I just love the purple eye I think..hunting for it. Chenille is so seventies so I love it. We have the same wildflowers I think since we're both east coast. xo I'm sure you have the purple thistles everywhere too...forget the name.

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  3. We have most of the same flowers, though it's surprising what a difference even a few miles make. I don't often see thistles here--they always make me think of Eeyore, since thistles were his favorite food. For purples we mostly have purple clover and asters. Around this house we also have lots of violets in early spring, which I love. Where I grew up they were few and far between, just a few little patches under the red pine tree in the backyard.

    I can see how that expanse of lace could seem as frumpy and overdone as a house full of doilies and chintz, but on top of those weedy overgrown stalks, beside all the other scruffy weeds, they seem perfect somehow. Like a big splashy hat on top of a happy, eccentric old lady.

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  4. I think it's funny that there's a hefty fine here for picking wildflowers, since they are probably the least endangered thing on the planet. The guy writing the ticket is probably much more endangered. I like moss. Moss looks good pretty much anywhere. I share your love of purple things.

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  5. Ooo, moss! If you get down on your tummy and really get in close (giving up on your pretensions to adult decorum), it's all plush vivid greens, maybe with bits of reds and yellows, fascinating repeating shapes. Shady riversides, big trees, big rocks, ferns and mushrooms--ah, mossy places are lovely.

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  6. Sounds lovely. I should go there. It's the only vacation I can afford this year. ;-) But disability people are on permanent vacation (some say). Yeah...right.

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