painting the room the painting on the
wall reminded me of before my wound when
times were well at the old farm well
as I would wind the wood
crank as the rope wound to raise the
bucket while the cranky wind blew
I do not know why the disgusting color of
blue was chosen as the background for the two
paintings. One of an ox with yoke, chickens
laying eggs of nutritious yoke and the farmer
with tools to produce fresh produce.
The other one, won in a contest, of a
dear deer among rows of trees as a
soldier rows trolling for trolls
down the river to desert his dessert
in the desert.
the window with the sea behind I see a
dove on a branch and the cat hawking a
hairball when suddenly a hawk swoops down
just as the dove dove into a bush.
I too did not object to
the objects in either of the two
paintings. Now feeling blue how could I
intimate my displeasure of a blue wall to
my most intimate friend? I close the
door swatting at a bee, wondering if Iím just
too close to be
objective. Taking my painterís cap off,
thinking, to cap it all off, the present
concern is that I cannot now present the
present to her, upon seeing the tear in
one painting I shed a tear.
She has enough on her
mind being an invalid minding
herself that the insurance is now invalid. I
could lead in a fundraiser for her if I would
just get the lead out.
mind got number, due the number of
tears and tears. I had to subject
the subject of the painting to repeated
repairs. Now in such disrepair it may as well be
of a sow in the field to sow or at a
quilting bee learning to sew, or of
one to leave a seam sewer to
slip by fallís leaves that seems
to fall into the sewer, so what?
As the dog scratches its chest, the water
pitcher sets on the polished chest
below the picture with tears that always
made the Polish maid, as she kneads
the dough, need an answer to her
wonder why would the buck in the
wood do what it does as it bucks
when does are due?
Then to top it off, on
top of all this, having not sent the check
the refuse was refused by the man
munching a sweet roll as I check my
watch. Becoming numb by the cold near
the stand of garbage pails I watch,
standing by the notty pine pole
hoping not to catch a naughty cold
remembering our responsibility that the
polls open in an hour, as
the sanitation truck rolls away over
the rolling hill. Iíll have to truck it to
dump it myself at the dump station;
today my station in life.
Is it within sanity or with insanity
that I write this peace-less piece?
Hancock Institute for Nonsense
Roger W Hancock © 11-24-2002