Jerome Sala
CUBIST PORTRAIT OF ALFRED E. NEUMAN
5.
me:
the what
that worries?
3.
me =
whatness + worry
7.
what what what me
worry what worry worry
me me me me what
what what what worry?
me? me? me what? what?
worry worry what what what
me what worry worry what
me me? me me me what? what?
4.
to worry
or not to worry
me asks
but what is the question?
2.
this worrisome whatness that is me
meets the other Alfred
the what who questions the first
both of us are liberated
from the other
6.
you took the hat
out of what
and put it on
me head
I took the o(a)r
out of worry
and rowed toward
the leftover (wh)y?
in this tiny
universe
of questions
me finds
a whatness
no longer
worrisome
and breaks
into a toothy grin
9.
whatness worries
about me?
what does? what does?
1.
what,
worry,
me?
naw
3.
Portrait
E.
Cubist Alfred
of
Neuman
SURREALIST PORTRAIT OF ALFRED E. NEUMAN
the razor of my what
slices the eyelid of my worry
with the mirror of my me
whatness fires a pistol randomly
into a crowd of me’s
my worries flee like surgeons
running from a sewing machine
at the intersection
of Alfred and E.
my what with hair on fire
my me with thoughts of heat lightning
my worry with the waist of an hourglass
After Alfred settled himself
in a place as favorable as possible
to the concentration of his mind upon itself
he had writing materials brought to him.
He put himself into as passive or receptive state
as he could. He began to write quickly,
without any preconceived subject,
fast enough so that he could not remember
what he was writing, and be tempted to reread it.
The first sentence came upon him spontaneously
so compelling in its truth that it cried to be heard:
WHAT, ME WORRY?
(Note: Borrows from Breton’s Surrealist Manifesto and “Free Union”)
MINIMALIST PORTRAIT OF ALFRED E. NEUMANworryry
POLITICAL PORTRAIT OF ALFRED E. NEUMAN
the opposition party should at least
ironize its non-opposition
by adopting Alfred E. Neuman’s
“What Me Worry?”
for its tag line
only problem is
the head of the other party
already looks like Alfred E. Neuman
and thus this gesture would be read
as another debilitating example of
a belated “me-too-ism”
PORTRAIT OF THE GENERAL.
Once a member of violent teenage street clubs,
later served as top piranha in a sub-tropical think tank.
Now he exists
neither happily nor “un”
as the periodical “perhaps”
in the State’s vast mind.
He is a momentary doubt, a glitch
in the political logic
just enough to cause a hesitation
about upping the ante in the game
of National Terror. A guy like him,
he could look a cattle prod in the prongs
without the least shudder in his nether regions.
He was so bad we could trust him
to do the right thing or at least something:
a grim grin along his ruthless robot jaw and even
the youth of our glorious truth brigade
would develop bladder control problems.
Our confused representatives whimpered
for the favors of their “Dear General”, for morsels
of his militant wisdom, even if to be in his debt meant
they had to leave their representational fantasies behind
and assume a place on the placid walls
of history’s museum: abstract expressions
of a vanishing empire. The General, though,
would usually smother such cries with his
gargantuan, deaf ears. In the vacuum of
his unhearing our senators would swirl, arguing
like intoxicated gnats. Meanwhile,
the earth would quiver under his shoes,
vast as the Himalayas, while the sky itself,
intimidated by the steely technology of his thoughts
would prepare its cloud beds for his stealthy exploration.
THE ANTI-EXPRESSIONIST
the laryngitis fetishist got off
on losing his voice
he’d hire prostitutes to order him
with due severity
to scream continuously all night long
the consummation of his ritual
would never occur
until the next day
with pleasure he would struggle to speak
and his silence was filled
with a greater bliss
than that of mere contemplation
AFTER SEEING IDIOCRACY
I was idiot for a day
in my personal idiocracy
there the planet shook
under the strain of dumbness
it forgot how to turn on its taxis
duh, axis
it thought the whole idea of an axis was “just weird”
we all flew off
into space
space was dumb too
it forgot the law of gravity
we landed back on the dumb earth
we had to talk see-spot-run type language to trees
just to convince them to grow
when they grew they said
thanks dumb people
but by then
we could no longer understand them
we were too stoned on Gatorade
it’s got electrolytes!
NOW PLAYING AT AN ALPHABET NEAR YOU
The angels and demons in my Adventure Land hammer out their appeal to humanity
on the same anvil.
Like a bland Betty evolving into blueness, their iron mallets blast with the heat of two
brothers in rival bloom.
Like clones returning home to Cape Canaveral, they feel lucky – as if they were crowned
superheroes by the lords of the comic book cosmos.
They are dear to the human race – not just me – as dear as a dance flick, or a dive into
dead snow – and to the demon the common folk beg to be dragged into hell,
To the angel – it’s as if the whole earth asks it be granted easy virtue at the end of every
line, at the end, even, of every step.
All pray too that their daily food be flavored with film, that they may eat in the forum of
forever remembered classics – as well as everyday fair – that they become as familiar
With cinematic dreaming as the ghosts of girlfriends or boyfriends past, that they gorge
themselves on the glamorous exploits of the gorgeous,
So much so that even the hangover hallucinations prompted by their gluttony seem like
five-hour blockbuster horror film epics.
Imagine that: an IMAX-enhanced bummer made incredibly bearable by the blare of its
garishly idiotic color and sound!
It would be nearly as cool as if Jeanne Moreau were to lose her judiciousness and chase
Jules and Jim once more across Jones Beach, on a joyful January day.
For scene like this, our old friend Kid Kassim would reel in his kite and kiss a Klondike
Bar with a knack for the dramatic,
In that land of lost limits and flourishing Lemon Trees we called his oeuvre.
Such visions make a person feel like the moon itself, only a moon equipped with a
sledgehammer designed by Milton Glazer. First you marvel, and then muzzle your way
under the beams of its magnificent design.
You escape the narrow-mindedness caused by too many nights in the museum,
And place your bets instead on the openings through which outrage can order the mind.
People appreciate the pomposity of the pressure cooker after all –
It quiets them, like the quiet chaos of the Western Front once did, asking for a moment
that they leave their questions aside
Like remnants of an old war, before the rebirth of the nation,
Before our starry trek through the summer hours of our surveillance, before the salvation
Of the Terminator and the re-taking of the Pelham 1-2-3, before the foxy Transformers
offered revenge for the fallen
And the new “up” feeling got under our skin,
So that we could all emulate Valentino, victors over a discounted sea of fashion,
So that there was no shame anymore wearing whatever worked, even if you ended up
feeling like the star of some windmill movie.
As the Man with the X-Ray Eyes might have put it, if he ever starred in a blind sequel:
“It takes a yes-man to fix the world…
You can retire now, Zorro – and take Xena the Warrior Princess right along with you.“