Bright Morning STAR

by Pat Darnell

P.R.-omises
Devil lived out his usefulness
Journalists congregated
watched transition
--Veil fell
hands shook
unidentifiable vessels
took to the sky and wrote:

"Wedding Day!
Open the guest Book!!"

PR agents witnessed
'n scribbled keywords
invented formula
in their notebooks, today's lines:
...in His tuxedo --
"Jesus; What a Stunner!"

"Fore" -- screamed T V Woods
as he and Father Son Holy Ghost
golfed as a foursome
as the sun rose
over eastern slopes

Jesus teed his Topflite Excalibur up
His caddy chose the Torah gopher one wood
He blasted that Devil old Beelzebub
into non-matter Zone for good!

Jesus Drove 'em
he racked 'em
to the dark side
He put them where light cant hide

"I want to die"
screamed one fool
as he was cooked alive
in stellar stew

and in every bar
on every corner
funny things occurred
every good Palikar
vanished into thin air
As the Groom putted out
twenty-one below par.

film melted in cameras
digital went hairy
Jesus smiled
"It is done;"
Heavy as iron
hitting bone
a joyous Allen Alda
took the arm of
Charlie Sheen
trying their best
to steal the scene

but we wouldn't let them

"See you in week,"
Said Jesus to them and a Greek--
while Marilyn received her wings
and Elvis his crown ...
this party went downtown!

Came the Son's decree:
"To know; and to be--"
passed-over generations
heard this day PR-omises
that every survivor is free
and every survivor drinks wine
made from Lamb's blood

and a portion of the Host
His body that was broke
--Jesus head-lined
front-pages that very morn
in every Home Town POST

"All Those without God are Toast"

Response to Song by Buzz Feiten -- Hey, Dinwiddie

by Pat Darnell

Livin' dinwiddie for a rumor
a rumor that someone,
someone I love, loves me

born again in here
thinking she’ll come back
soon, she'll come back
soon to be with me

can’t get that last word
she said out of my head
anymore than i can forget
that "Cannonball" beat
while lying alone here in bed

If 'n I can be discreet --
If 'n I can tune it out’ --
maybe she set in Arkansas
saying “oui, oui, oui ...”

‘dat’s the dinwiddie divine
po’ diddly, dinwiddie, moonshine heat
pour’n down on me?
dat's her dinwiddie sooner
sending spoons of sugar to me

Ain’t it sweet, sweet a'rumor
... love be sprinkling down on me,
she sure ta'be on that freeway
comin’ right back home to me?
comin' right back home ...

... to be with me.

[another unsolicited "dinwiddie verse " improv from yours truly; the tunes inspire]

This is a Test; Only a Test

by Pat Darnell

There is a test
that helps determine
one's propensity
to seek art

and do art
and seek hidden facets
and find great hiding places

this is the test:
first you notice
that you feel an emptiness
in your heart
while growing up, and,

you have pains in your wrists
you count things all the time
you find patterns in the strangest places
you understand comic books
you memorize all the wrong things for school
you ask questions no one else cares about

you know how to mix all the colors

using only primaries red, yellow and blue
you then graduate,

adding white and black to your palette

you think the greatest silent movie made is Eraserhead
you spend much of your youth crawling around on floors
you secretly explore vacant buildings

such as churches on Mondays
roam behind buildings, and up ramps,
stumble through junkyards,
and walk dry ditches before rain

you get nervous, irritable in bookstores

you hide under things,
you seek cover in bushes, under bridges
you think long after you had a conversation
what you said, what he said
what she said, you repeat yourself,

saying everything twice, saying everything twice
you blush when others notice you

you flush when made fun of

you like to go up in attics

you lay down on the sidewalk and watch ants
you use a Ball jar to catch bees
... and poke holes in the top
so the bees might breathe

you cut country bouquets for your mom

you cannot get enough of cedar tree's scents

you love how coconuts feel

you love wool and felt and Egyptian cotton

you have ability to feel oils of different weights

you find treasure leaps into your sensitive fingers

you have lovers before you have lovers

your eyes are always changing colors

you are scatter brained to some

you, to others their cornerstone

you love the odors of outdoor zoo's

... and barnyards

... and plastics

... and trains, and warm wood

... and rusty metal, and things fried

your taste buds must be firstly satisfied
you listen carefully to others' claims
you trust others for what they say
you love your feet bare on pavement after it rains
you stand close to the stream when it overflows

you watch and stalk animals, birds and crocs
you do not want to disturb them
... but they are too clever for that
you admire animals as they scamper

you love to hold a torch at night
Now if you say yes to twenty or so of thirty-six
questions that pertain to your artistic
evaluation -- though you may not know
how it really is you are this...

be accepting of your story
count your blessings so
in self evaluations
you do not waste time any more

Once you are sure
the hard part is past
it is hardest to deny
for your nature is pure
and your method is shaping
you passed the tests

up from deep well-spring sources
flowing as foundling art in you
and you may spend hours and days,
confidently, even months and centuries
with the new, unspoiled thought

leveling your groundwork
surveying the possibilities
developing your technique
simpering about odds and ends

so that eventually you conquer means

to find materials to embody
to find tillable pasture
and favorable schemes
for your artistic manufacture
so when it is done
when it is finished

when it reaches its best end
you will feel empty again
only this time both
in your heart and in your gut
as if you drank liquid mercury

and the pain will last a night
or a fortnight, until you find comfort
and gaze upon your artwork
on a different day in new light

Brad Pitt versus Billy Bob Thornton in a Bar Fight

I once had a bulldog named Prad
who loved most to break men’s spleens
... he jumped up on Billy Bobbing
... and gave his torso a hobbing
while gearing in a snoggin’ with Lippy Angeline …

God awful, t’weren’t it brittly un-sportin’
that after Mr and Mrs Smith cahortin'g
... was a cadaver named Bob Billy Thornton
... left rancid, cuckolded and stiff
as another cornuto that the dog Prad Bitt?

[another impromtu limerick for a hedonistic situation, by Pdaf]
revised just a bit.. picture from images [unk] 09.05.09 pd and again 09.12.09