Ginsberg’s Omelet, by Ron. Lavalette

Ginsberg’s Omelet
by Ron. Lavalette

This is the egg of the Void, ovoid, egg I have come to know these 20 years on frozen
  flats, in dreams of egg gone mad, unreachable egg, egg unbeaten by Time,
  unmapped in the flat gray clouded frypan of Imagination, egg unreal, uneaten
  eggshell egg—
This is the fork I choose to torture the egg, fork of my mother’s choosing, passing
  through generations, immigrant fork that travels from Prussia, come to rest on
  American Formica, Breakfast In America fork, Fork of Manhattan 2019, come to beat
  the egg for real, to make the mad yellow omelet of Century XXI, feed the starving
  mass of men standing and waiting to dig the secret bop-cabala of omelette breakfast
  staring up from the ooky yolky plate with sizzled bacon beside—
This is the milk of lost aspiration, squeezed from the unwilling tit, small milk, spilled,
  useless milk propped up by demonic farm subsidies devised by Washington to keep
  the dirty farmer poor, Milk of the Mother, pilfered mechanically, milk I remember
  from sour nights on the Plains, drifting toward unrequited Denver, lights whiter
  than mercury vapor under the odd sad laughing western omelet moon—
O Omelet of my soul, sweet yellow comrade omelet, come to me now, I am starved for
  your Grace, I await you now in early morning America

Inspiration Source: Allen Ginsberg’s HOWL (and other poems)

Ron. Lavalette is a very widely-published poet living on the Canadian border in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. His first chapbook, Fallen Away, is now available from Finishing Line Press and at all other standard outlets. His poetry and short prose has appeared extensively in journals, reviews, and anthologies ranging alphabetically from Able Muse and the Anthology of New England Poets through the World Haiku Review and Your One Phone Call. A reasonable sample of his published work can be viewed at EGGS OVER TOKYO: http://eggsovertokyo.blogspot.com

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Metamorphosis, by Ron. Lavalette

Metamorphosis
by Ron. Lavalette

Call me Looneyman Coffeeslut.
When you find me in the morning
long before the sun comes up,
(as if there’s likely to be sun)
when you find me at the keyboard,
half a man half asleep, call me
Fingerdreams Hopeful, call me
Renovated Crashburn.
Yesterday I was Flabbergast
Downheart , but all my friends
(as if I’d had a friend)
loved me as I was, called me
Sameold Goodold when they
met me on the street, gave me
everything, I guess, they thought
a man like Hankernot Renunciation
might ever need. Still, though, need
followed me everywhere, hunger
dogged me secretly. Tomorrow
(as if there’s any other day)
is another day. Tomorrow
you can call me Smiley Nirvana;
tomorrow I’ll be Karmic Bailout.

Ron. Lavalette (Barton VT) has been widely published, both in print and online. A reasonable sample of his published work can be found at Eggs Over Tokyo Ron. blogs at: Scrambled, Not Fried.
http://about.me/rlavalette

Whistler’s Annunciation, by Ron. Lavalette

Whistler’s Annunciation
By Ron. Lavalette

Mister Whistler looms
down the gloomy street,
hoping to meet the morning
but limps himself back home
before dawn.
                             When the sun
comes scrambling up at last
over the staring and eggy town,
sleepy in its early kitchens,
all the yellow curtains
in all the yellow windows
burst into Sunday flames
and fall, burning the countertops
and leaving their feeble yellow ash
on Mister Whistler’s sad and
unswept morning floors.

Ron. Lavalette (Barton VT) has been widely published, both in print and online. A reasonable sample of his published work can be found at Eggs Over Tokyo. Ron. blogs at: Scrambled, Not Fried.

http://about.me/rlavalette

Chase, by Ron. Lavalette

Chase
By Ron. Lavalette

The old man scoops another
thin scrape of riverbank, dips
the rim to drown the till,
swirls the pan. Part of the dig
slips over the edge with every
circle. The murky water clears.
Sandy granite. Schist. A glint
of mica. The man looks up.
The sun is gold in a blue sky.
The man sits still, resigned.
He sighs; scoops; swirls; spills.
He wills himself to wait.

Ron. Lavalette (Barton VT) has been widely published, both in print and online. A reasonable sample of his published work can be found at Eggs Over Tokyo. Ron. blogs at: Scrambled, Not Fried.

http://about.me/rlavalette

Sundress, by Ron. Lavalette

Sundress
By Ron. Lavalette

She thinks about how she looks,
about how she looks in a sundress;
puts it on and steps on out
onto Main Street, pushes her stroller
down past the Creemee stand
where the hunks hang out,
admiring each other’s tattoos
and planning their romantic assaults
on the wide-eyed waitress at the Valley House,
making bets on who among them is
most likely to get to second base first.

She knows she doesn’t stand a chance
of catching their full attention
or holding it very long, but she’s
hoping there’s enough breeze
to flutter her sundress,
lure at least one of them
into a second look, hold his eyes long enough
so that her red hair and lipstick
sends him a green light, tempts him to
come on over and chat her up.

But the stroller’s working against all that.
Sundress or no, lipstick or not,
she knows she’s made her bed;
she just doesn’t want to lie in it alone.

Ron. Lavalette (Barton VT) has been widely published, both in print and online. A reasonable sample of his published work can be found at Eggs Over Tokyo. Ron. blogs at: Scrambled, Not Fried.

http://about.me/rlavalette

WELL, Ron. Lavalette

Well
by Ron. Lavalette

All the water we needed was
well below the glacial till.
Twelve gallons a minute, four
hundred feet down. Charlie
and his boys had to keep
changing the bit, making sure
the mud went down smooth, the
flush and cuttings came up
like they should.
                                Three
blistering days went by
before they hit anything
vaguely resembling bedrock;
three days of a grumbling crew,
the chaser truck shuttling
back and forth for pipe,
for Cokes and smokes and
general store hoagies, hotter
than sweltering hell and only
the middle of May.
                                Tonight,
two Mays later, I’m out on
the deck, an icy gin and tonic
reminds me it’s almost summer
again, Venus smiles down, farmboys
off in the distance, probably
drunk, have themselves a little
impromptu fireworks display,
either because they just got back
from Toronto, or because they’re
too whopping drunk to know it’s
not quite the Fourth.
                                Either way,
I’m waiting for you here
beside the well tonight, enjoying
the show from a distance; happy
as man lately lost in the desert
come in at last for something cool
to drink.

Ron. Lavalette (Barton VT) has been widely published, both in print and online. A reasonable sample of his published work can be found at Eggs Over Tokyo. Ron. blogs at: Scrambled, Not Fried