The Mad Man from Macon

Sestina Jackson met Text-Deft James on 09/09/09. A Red Hook, BK dock party celebrated Otis Redding’s Birthday. Sestina mouthed along to “The Happy Song,” And TDJ smiled, baring his Cornel West-esque Teeth. Text-Deft’s chops whiter, but same gap. Cigs and java, then shake, as Battery Park Gleamed across the East River. Text-Deft parked His literary, rusty Lincoln Continental nine Blocks from the new IKEA, a small gap Between rusty bumpers scuffed with dings And marker tags. Sestina Solange-esque, Perhaps Solange times ten. All poet, song Lyrics fly from Sestina. She sang songs In Jackson Heights with Granny J parked By her side. This bash? Carnival masque. Now, they swayed to “6-3-4-5-7-8-9,” That’s my number! TD leading Sestina before long. No gap In the music. All Otis —no stopgap. The moon moved, drifted. The songs Kicked. TD whispered over fading Bass: “You wanna walk through the park? Talk about Zadie and Roth and (and and) nine Other scribes?” A nod. SJ: “I’m A. Rich-esque. Gimme Duhamel, Dove, a Clifton-esque Ode. Poetry owns me. I scan tales as a gap Between ghazals and villanelles. B. Collins’s Nine Horses, Espada’s Alabanza. Cathy Song Preaches to perceive heaven. Poet’s Walk Park In the other Red Hook, upstate — riding Up the Metro North — let’s go.” TDJ: “Send tidings My way. We’ll plan a soiree. A rom-com-esque Romp. As we travel to this Norse poet park, We’ll laugh and say ‘mind the gap,’ In droll Brit brogues. What will our song Be? An Otis classic? A dirge to survey Odin’s ninth World?” Nine times the voice and ding Sing, as monotone noises, robot-esque, Order them: watch the gap. Then? The park. Oh! Hucklebuck! Treat her right! Yes, you, Text-Deft James. He says, “I swear by the mud below my feet. When I read, I don’t grind. A great text has great beauty. A great horse, too, has great beauty. Horses, equine, all this Alan from Equus-esque worship at the altar, but then comes the eye spike. Like Odin. I guess we always come back to the eyes. They beat the horse to flies, above, inside, around. They write papers that grind horses into dog grub ... ” Sestina: “My rugged poetic sensibilities allow me to embrace 
extended metaphorical diction of disturbing, lurid carnage. But please, please. Spare your doggish death rattle. First dates occur once. Among the dates’ participants, that is; e.g, me, you. So, if you will, ax the horse talk. I prefer rubbery arms, Espada’s cockroaches, axes on frozen pond sludge. Sibilant rush. Gimme Yusef’s Orpheus. Or Ferlinghetti from Coney Island to North Beach. Gimme Wisława Szymborska (a name I can pronounce, FYI. RIP.) Please. Please, Text-Deft James. Not equinicide. I’ve seen bearded ladies whisper acclaim, whimper shame. Devil nuns. I whisper a clipped utterance of the ineffable. The untied united. Not only ineffable, but tangible ... ” (unsaid: I take my tongue, propelled by chemical soul, and I have a dirty, nasty, downright raunchy time with it. I’m talking sheets off the bed, candles tipped over, shower flooding the bathroom tile. T-shirt grimy from fun crust.That type of night. I, Sestina, won’t share such thoughts. Instead —) “ ... know my resurrected heart beats brick red. Know that I seek poetry in moose lodges, in homeless shelters, in candy shops. I do remember walking down Northern Blvd. with Granny J, begging for sour candy. Bears dipped in sugar: cherry, orange, lime mixed. Let’s hover above this grass. As a kid, I went to Shea Stadium, waved a foam finger, and I was sure I’d marry a Met, maybe Al Leiter. As we stand here in front of this rustic pavilion, I’d like to ask you on another date. The Mets have few home games left, and I’d love some BBQ.”