Pluot of Complacency
(from The Lost Epiphanies of Melodramas Undone Compilation)
You son of a—
What’s a compliant pluot of complacency mean?!
Is that an insult, a compliment? It doesn’t feel like it is. And what’s with leaving me this lone clue—this stained and forlorn note. What gives? Where are you? Have you run off to hike your long distance trail again? Were you not going to call me again for a couple of weeks, then suddenly call from Hot Springs, North Carolina? And what of the kids? The dogs? The vegetable garden? The flower beds?
So I’m a compliant pluot of complacency, huh? Well, suck on this, squarehead! I’m gonna’ break every bit of vinyl in this room—this mausoleum to your youth—and I’m gonna’ start with these Scraping Foetus off the Wheel records. I’ll be damned if I listen to one of those platters of skeevies again. And these Throbbing Gristle records … first I’m taking a hammer to those and then into the wood chipper. And those Coil, Psychic TV, and Swans records—some white gas from your hiking stove and they’re the monticule of your funeral pyre I’m burning your played-out effigy over.
Don’t bother calling. I’m off with the kids and dogs to Burning Man. Damn the house, the rutabagas, the dahlias and calendula. Hoist this on your petard … petunia-brain!
What I’m Reading:
“Nowadays you guys settle for a couch
By a soporific color cable t.v. set
Instead of any arc of love…”
— Bernadette Mayer / “[Sonnet] You jerk you didn’t call me up”