Don’t push me — no prodding or pummeling.
Don’t try to persuade with your pleasant propaganda. Don’t pursue ME.
Your point is well-taken. Perhaps one day, it’ll be compelling propelling;
I’ll put the pedal to the metal. But if you pick Pick PICK at me much longer,
I’ll punch you in the eye. Your prompt will become an UN-PROMPT.
Psychological pitter-patter, putter mutter, mumbo jumbo —
I DON’T LIKE BEING PUSHED.
Contemplating Scrapple, careful to ignore the contents (A too well considered “cruise” can spoil the courtship!), contemplating Scrapple I see my Father’s countenance, calm, as he cuts the Scrapple NARROW; using the cast iron skillet to fry-up breakfast: Eggs, Scrapple, with a side order of Toast. He looks happy in that kitchen cubicle. Contemplating Scrapple, I smile because I see my Father.
The Potbelly Pig squeezed through the pet flap, trotted down to the street, laying down, “playing dead” — waited for someone to notice; then went back inside to check on his dying mistress; wounded himself going through that narrow pet door a few times. FINALLY someone stopped and the pig lead him back to his mistress. (She lived because of that pig. True Story.) SOME PIG is what Charlotte the Spider wove into her web to save her friend, Wilbur, from the Butcher’s Block. (Charlotte’s Web – E.B. White) That’ll do, Pig, is what Farmer Arthur Hoggett said to BABE, after he, the pig, herded the sheep in record-breaking time. (1995 Film – BABE)
Shown at the Brandywine River Museum, in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania, Jamie Wyeth’s portrait, in oils, of “DEN-DEN“, a big BIG pink pig with a golden aura further emphasizes my point —
It’s murder when you kill a friend.
SQUAWK, chirp, an explosion of sound,
cascade of blue feathers, Fountain,
three Blue Jays flew UP, and “ran away“,
left the premises, Got out of Dodge. Hissing — the remaining — slight gray Mockingbird
flew to the top of the of the lamp post.
His long tail feathers were twitching,
[waving his flag]
When boys collect an assortment of toys You can guarantee there will be some noise. A man or an animal quite enjoys Illusion, subterfuge, they’re backstreet boys — Employs devious poise, fancy convoys Rolling down the street, the road, thus destroys My QUIET with their highfalutin noise! Oh, they’re nothing but inferior alloys. Mischief, as a technique, an imp employs Shattering the illusion of discrete “poise”. I WISH to snare silence [!] the real McCoys!
The white cat with gray tabby patches, “Feline Appaloosa” — I know this cat! — runs to my side, frenetic hop, skip and a jump. The cat, my old feline friend, then speaks, well almost; it’s body language: fluctuating, (A shy cat will wrap its body around everything BUT you.) generating, ring-around-the-rosy, motorboat engine nonstop PURRING – attraction STATIC. The white cat with gray tabby patches, “Feline Appaloosa“, leans against my leg, staring across the yard, empty lot, at the shrubbery [in the back yard, next house]. I could almost see “Feline Appaloosa” VIBRATE, (Aura?). Was this fear — the white cat with gray tabby patches was almost shivering — or was this just high-alert, awareness of something out there THAT I CAN’T SEE (FRUSTRATING!) dancing in place while standing still. Suddenly, we part company, offstage cue. The white cat with gray tabby patches, “Feline Appaloosa” ducks underneath the porch [to eat the food I left in the bowl] while I go up the steps. We glance at each other, snap of the fingers moment, ZOOM gloom, “Later, Friend.” But I still wonder. I still feel, I still sense the vibration, feline taut wire. WHO was that cat WATCHING?!