The Bluest Balls – Jasper Schlaffer
August 16, 2022
Whom loves makes so mad a rover,
‘LI take a cuckoo for a swallow,
If she say so, sooth! He thinketh
There’s a plain where Puy-de-Dome is.
Till his eyes and nails are gone,
He’ll throw dice and follow fairly
– such as old stories never vary –
For his fond heart is foredone.
It’s hot, the ground is wet
undoubtedly summer but I’m
thinking like a sled dog as the streets unwind in front of me
like a Russian tundra
or wherever they have sled dogs these days
Finland maybe. Or Alaska.
The smell of rain
on hot pavement; ethereal dampness
It’s good to see those petals
pearly eyed and laughing and breathing.
dry grass makes me sad,
I’m feeling like a truck
currently, temporarily – perhaps –
with all these dogged thoughts of mine
I’m late, heavy-loaded and low on gas
at a hundred miles an hour
with my mind astray
like a dog on the loose
the long leash dragging
it won’t get entangled on some fire-hydrant or
other pole-like object
or woman’s leg (likely)
– apologies in advance –
as I make my way with
only the locust to stir and the
rattle from the motor compartment.
So long everybody, meant
no harm, just
worthless – Okay?
Truck’s broken down again
no one left
to think of it, fix it or refuel
no gas in the tank, and no money in the bank to fix
my broken wheel and my
dilapidated muffler – complex metaphor for constipation and flatulence – emotional and physical
fuck it, leave it.
There is a girl
with the warm smile and open heart of a used-car salesman.
I am naturally suspicious when people want to
sell me stuff
especially so when I need it.
I’m a tightrope walker on a barbed wire fence, telling
jokes that could make a grown man weep.
I’m a rooster walking upon
broken eggshells on a meticulous search
for grains or worms.
On must be picky as a poet
looking for the right metaphor or simile
one must be
I am sure of my predicament
it’s gooey like egg yoke
My mind goes crazy when the taste is sweet
It starts again every morning
powdered pancake existence
and a cup of coffee
strong and bitter
to get through the day.
My troubles are numerous and immense
unaccountable, uncountable like cash
in emptying pockets.
I’m hyperventilating, I don’t know how to breathe
my life is a debit account
my life is the Dow Jones industrial average June 15th 22
All my crypto-investor friends tell me
it will get better but
I don’t think so
I don’t think at all
except occasionally of
chicks as I stroll under starry canopy night
like a rat crawling through a drain pipe.
Inundate me, drown me out
flood the market.
is a tall lean lady
in synthetic leather boots
I have taken her home with me
more than once
She’s also a dope fiend
and a terrible roommate
smokes all your cigarettes and softly coughs up bedtime stories
She says “Stay with me, speak to me”
But what does anybody have to say these days?
“I’ve hit a flat tire on memory lane. Perhaps
Nostalgia sells well because there’s hardly a future ahead of us. Meaning me and you –”
“You have told me already” she sez
“But It’s hard to say if anything is gonna sell
I couldn’t care less!” As I roll up in a Pangolin fetal curl, face
to face with
Her heavy coat of make up
it cracks as she tries to break a smile.
Her eye-shadow is dark like carbon, pubic hair black
like a late Rothko – sublime, profound and VERY EXPANSIVE
Maybe I’ll got to Houston one day and see for myself
curl up, reenact the scene and then
whack off in the visitors restroom.
is what art does to you.
 References the Rothko chapel located in Houston Texas furnished with distinctly black paintings