jupiter in the house of dust and luck

tom sawyer in outer space, copyright ziggy zagmyer 

four hundred and eighty-three million miles from the sun
jupiter is too far to hitchhike 
        also 
buses don’t go there
so i wear jupiter striped sunglasses
drive a jupiter colored jalopy 
swerve wide and reckless down open highways
        so raindrops can’t find me
i’ve got expired tags
i’ve got weak brakes and a blown cylinder 
i’ve got passengers who need to get to jupiter
		immediately 
he is radio free universe
        she is a bootdagger blonde
he is a falcon hunting peacocks 
        she is the ace of flames
he wants to be sid
	she wants to be nancy 
(blackeyed boy down in the basement
pretends the furnace is a spaceship
he’s got snacks and supplies and a perfect place to hide 
no atmosphere, no gravity, and no angry fathers 
	on jupiter’s loving moons, roger that, houston)
she plays violin like a cricket in a stormdrain
	he plays mandolin like a weapon of mass destruction
she is a bottle of illegal fruitsugar
	he is risking addiction
she throws rocks at god
	he catches them when they fall 
(on jupiter, jesus is nobody’s sacrificial lamb
        just a man, union carpenter
throwing boy-minded smiles at his beautiful bride
his wild-lings wilding on the beach, splash! a purple sunrise
would you tell him it’s all illusion?
would you deny him one uncrucified daydream?)

she is a gang of runaway government horses
he was born and raised in the age of cartoon philosophy
(zen and the art of why did the chicken cross the road)

as we cross the rubicon
we jettison our credit cards and raise our freak flag 
	now we all ride in a phantom cadillac 
misfit pixie kids playing grab-ass in the backseat
the blackeyed boy rides shotgun
i hit cruise control and fiddle with the radio
	bobblehead jesus sings along
                (run little rabbit run)
in the glovebox: band aids, rolaids, boomerangs 
paper airplanes, other random things, and 
	mona lisa’s missing mood ring 
earth gets small in the rearview 
we won’t lament that cement armpit
not with ten more miles to go 
	so raise a glass of aftermath to the devil
	pour some out for the tax collector 
	say a prayer for the prairie dog king
		and all his kingdom come
	dust to dust and luck to luck
ten thousand heavens open up and we fly in
like summertime miller moths 
like 
a millionbillion
little
lost
paper 
gods
(poof)
gone

posted for shay’s word garden word list/ferlinghetti and earthweal

20 thoughts on “jupiter in the house of dust and luck”

  1. Holy crap, that was worth the wait! “swerve wide and reckless down open highways / so raindrops can’t find me” opens the throttle and we’re launched in our jalopy Saturn V. Will be back after another couple of reads, there’s a lot here??

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      2. Explode they do. No, you are denied even one un-crucified daydream if these are the poems we get. Keep your nose huffing that cement armpit. This poem is fantastic.

        Liked by 1 person

      3. Commenting here on your other poems… they are all terrific. Top-drawer. Who on earth comments on your stuff and calls it crazy? WTF? They are amazing.

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      4. oh, i’m not getting into who, they all mean well, they don’t mean any harm. i’m just sick of that characterization is all. if i do anything outside of the standard MFA writing program. nothing against those folks, but reading that “tap water” gets boring, and doesn’t get me drunk. write anything outside of that razor thin bandwidth, and it’s “crazy”. they can call themselves “writers”, that’s fine, but if they dare call themselves “artists”, then i laugh in their plastic faces. i’m ranting, i need to stop before i hurt someones feelings. i’, fine, i just get frustrated with society at large sometimes

        Liked by 1 person

      6. thank you sir. so my plan this year to beat the elite writers club at their own game, i’m going thru my catalog, old and new, and finding stuff that’s easy to digest, stuff that won’t melt anyone brain, and getting them published, going to earn some of that mysterious substance they call “merit”… that’s step one. thank god for you and shay and the others, otherwise i would go crazy. thanks for understanding. end of rant.

        Liked by 2 people

  2. Correct me if I’m wrong, but was this written with some of the words from the Ferlighetti word list? Your post doesn’t say. In any event, what a road poem! ARE there roads in space? maybe there’s a road wherever the will to move exists?
    I especially loved playing violin like a cricket in a storm drain, and Mona Lisa mislaying her mood ring. All aboard for Jupe, I remember Jeep, and it’s about time Jay had some down time.

    –Shay

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  3. Amazing passengers , driver and bystanders on a very “Waiting for Godot” roadway. It fels like the road, if it exists, is being built only a few feet ahead of the vehicle! The energy is compelling, like in the song.

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  5. WOW! An amazement of a poem. I, too, loved the cricket in the storm drain, and too many other fabulous lines to quote. Whoosh! Just superb. Sorry I took so long to get here. Have had vertigo all month. Sigh.

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  6. This is so wonderful, Phillip. All of it. So filmic and vivid, I’m being swept along with the ride as it soars. So many good lines. Like:

    “she plays violin like a cricket in a stormdrain
    he plays mandolin like a weapon of mass destruction
    she is a bottle of illegal fruitsugar
    he is risking addiction
    she throws rocks at god
    he catches them when they fall”

    And I thoroughly enjoyed reading all the backlog of poems I missed. Love your punchy style, the way it gathers momentum, the surprising images 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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