tap rooting matinee scripts...

The Key To The Magic Garden
Michael Hutter 2005 ©

this is me coloring 
my yearly nearly focused whole 
or cussed parts foundry yams 
things I call sweet potatoes
(I remember ward is in my name )
before cornering the ordinals 
it is I rabbit run rabbit hole fun 
a bright foil jacketed Humpty-Dumpty 
melting chocolate crosses 
and basket womb spirit double-gang-ing  
I want to know what Tuesday said to Saturday 
when they went about culling 
the calling to be callously creative...

I am a plucky cunning clever addicted 
re:cycled ritualized recognition 
I covet things I can ignite 
legerdemain principle-d flighty 
slighted hand parlor trickery(s) 
I spy tinder dry relaxed 
sight horizon write downs 
hypnotic recall redolence(s) 
I hear reel to reel flicker-y feel(s)  
I get it...

this is a movie and it's all about my life
is a poem-movie 
a move-motive-moat 
and it is titled:

how, what and why 
I choose to remember 
any when then
tap rooting 
the matinees 
for scripts...

(cliffhanger ending to stanza, hint's a sniff)


I have always thought 
that I had a big nose 
and some where 
this thought lingered 
and is what probably fed 
my innocent at first
but now inordinately large 
and fetid-ly keen fascination
of what smells can do 
to visualized memory...

meanwhile 
noxious-neural-mathematical-faded-me-as-poem 
says it's March and I should want to wobble slut myself 
a-sling-bot-garden-cot-orchard-birthing-centered-hope

and outside 
even as light gathers 
it is still barbed tenacious Winter after dark
I stop myself, looking back 
at habitual seasonal almost(s) 
and there I am, always 
in faded Polaroid shoe box 
at the knife edge of a life once ago 
mixed in the all weather white paint 
on a mason block wall out back 
somewhere celluloid has forgotten...

I have many times tried 
to memorize a pattern
to the way I was back then
where I was when there was 
a me before the poem again...

and this seeing 
that I think I see 
best with my eyes 
my nostrils slowly flare 
letting me know 
scent here 
while human 
is a siren 
and dream 
that is mostly
intoxication 

to expect moderation of ripe harvesting 
by all the sordid angels and demons 
when souls inhabit the earth 
to divine rare bits of living 
spiritual-ized flesh 
known as humans
is best to stay a concept 
a spawned fleeting 
expression of clarity 
once attained, something
you've finger drawn on wet sand 
low tide tired and thirsty 
crawling back inside the poem...

there you go darling 
a wading service waiting 
I'll get the coffee 
you look into night 
out of windows 
spring music 
ebb peep 
mud gurgles 
are playing...

poem says  
I ride people's outflow energy 
and have many other delusion(s) 
and/or dramatic 
and comedic ensembles 
and I will say they are all
a necessary ridiculous insulation 
and my insinuations, while seemingly loving 
are an over-built complicated chaos 
why I rise with purpose 
for every place laced with a scent 
of what I imagine began being 
when the birds and bees 
were turned words and pleas...

EJR ©