Wilma Kahn

Biddle Creek

Mr. Cee Bee m'a dit que Biddle Crock is a nasty-
little-town and lord knows I bin there

	This is downtown Bittle Crup
	This is Lakechewer Mall
	This is Acky's Artshoppe

 but not with nasty-little-sty in my eye.

Heart-struggled de Mille, you saw through
blear the grain silo, called it crap, call
old man K's serial salt-peterous stuff
denounced the whole genre as bibleous.

But I yam what I yam said the little train
whoo whoo and chugga chugga right into
Bottle Crook.

	              +

Past timesredolent sniffing dogwood no
smell you say? Acky Artshoppe a fine young
toother / ready spear / our hearts were
young and gay . . . half-goy whay couldn't
he do? Encomium requires piano drums
impromptu comus acting
stage screen and bed.

Acky speaks Acky Laughs.
Ching ching Wocky pays.

Old man Acky knight of the Boots Randolph,
senor drumster Jewish lothario of C-W muse.
Artist par ex, progenitor of Reese's Cup labels,
fame-grabbing anonymity his lot. His lot a
pseudo-gnome home shady dell where young Acky
works unto this day bucket o'er head
microphone at lips sschlooshy esses
uncanny stellar stream -- for a moment I
took him for Andy Kauffman, post-Elvis
expressionist may he rip.

	+

AfinelittlemallitisLakechewer
Wheresthelake
Mustbethex-pee-way
				   /
I'll-buy-you-some-new-underwear

	+
Downtown
Baddle Creek
Uglylittletown
lookatallthemtallbuildings

	+

Triumphal return Dr. Wocky 
(Jabber to her friends) views
the fine city aping Chi-town, Chi-lites,
that bottom, shoo-be-do-wah that bottom.
Kiss my
Buttle Crack I'm back, 
and snails curl slime round city to
find old man K's gift and Stuffer O-tell.
Spiral's hub noose a men a two-buck par king,
cheap mein gott,
quoth Wocky, I gotta get otta Albany!

A rizzy din sert par an effete 
semi-tuxtal whale,
"and if that wasn't dessert enough, 
two cookies with your bill!"
Ach! we'd hobnobbed all right 
rubbernecking the menu
in the elevator behind rich suits 
a few stray heirs
looks so natural Dieter
close enough to touch -- mein ex-prez!

Et puis the gift de 1981 
to the people of Boggle Cruck
inside the mouth of a mechanical dog
a place for b-ball / no shame / 
great game / many fine folders
and a pseudo stage throne against wall,
stage abuse I calls it.

	+

The sho. Each group disclaimed 
we were there, now were here
Grassrooters summing Sha Na Na Na Na
Live For Today. Carpe diem
Jaggalike, high-to-me,
	but a young Mamphan first,
Sir Andy of Childs, 
co-citoyen de Sir Mark of Collie
and the Dogs. Woof! Puis, novar man, 
garage band, kneeded rubbing, 
crypto-Elvis, story teller . . . .

Lookatimbiggut
Howzeclimetheladders
Popeelpocketladderscaler

Dontshoutshittheresanoldlady
Dontshoutfucktheresanoldman

Anotherfireman
placescrawlin
beergut
popeel
gottadrink

Grassrooters but you recall 
it all swims in a dog
earless, rear legless, grass, get it, grass --

two annahafhoursrudelymashed the A-sock
shameless, sang their own
and everyone else's a sixties show that's what
no flute today a DX 7 cardboard toot 
no attempt to blow four gone guys
three new guise
two old guys a hat-covered bald, cords gone
26 years rasping I bin married longer 
TO THE SAME WOMAN!
Windy not my tune protested Dr. Wocky whistling
Windy, Biggle Click truly a Windy city tonight, shy town!

Stuffer Kleenex stuffed in Wocky's ears 
loud wind -- don't go
away Rene and along comes Mary 
lotta jokes about this song but
a piece of poesy gives 
gristle to compulsive chewers:
	/	/	/
now my empty cup is as sweet as the punch / 
live ~ for ~ today /
	/	/
sweet as the punch.