HYMN TO A HOMONYM


The harpies hunched in a circle. Harped on their subject, objecting to the golden sunset casting purples across their black coats. They used an ocher ocarina to scoop their plates full of overboiled okra. This not OK - the sweet potato should never become a ladle. Although the harpies had already upchucked in the soup; the setup thus adequately to begin with unbecoming.

Corinna, waiting for her portion, warbled a ditty of her own invention, beginning, "I live in a state of drug induced. A life to which I am wholly used. Always high, ever goosed, I am of my own ghost town the toast."

Ellen, the lowliest, therefore entitled to first dibs, lifted her sallow face - after slurping okra off her plate - to croak, had anyone seen that tinhorn Jupiter of late?

Abigail, the middle gal, finished dolloping from the kettle suspended over the fire; handed the ocarina to Corinna, saying, "Last saw that horntoad conjunct with Mercury - crotchety faggots going at it like madhatters touched down on Mars."

She drew from the plumage of her bodice a harp; plucked a few bass chords.

Ellen used her wings' fingernails to mark time against a tooth.

By way of a bridge, Corinna blew on the yeoman ladle - in lieu of loading okra - a riff about when the sheriff was away the harpies would play; lyrics innate in the notes; everything that dusk in the clearing subtle as shit in a hat.

"Mercury:" Corinna dropped the ocarina into the okra, "there's a joker you can't trust any further than you could by his sandals toss his ass.

"Just the other eon he layed that egg about the doorgunner. Seems a reporter asks, 'How can you shoot women and children?' The youth, busy boarding a chopper for a sortie over a paddy, snickers, 'Easy - just don't lead 'em so much!' Only Merc says 'lead' to rhyme with 'led,' and to this day the reporter walks away thinking the gunner means you don't need to use as many slugs to slaughter women and children, when actually he intends the essence of deflection shooting - you don't need to shoot so far ahead, because women and children can't run as fast as the adult male targets; Mercury full of slick shit like that. His outside reflects his inside. Despite hyperdimensional palaver quick as lava out Krakatoa, he really has but one side - remember his toes aimed backward to fool the posse when he rustled Apollo's cattle?"

"Correct," agreed Abigail.

"Because it was Saturn's turn to return," Ellen spoke, clearing okra sliming her throat. "The lead reference clearly marking Mercury a Saturn follower."

"Snappy as," assented Abigail, "the brim on his hat."

"Mercury or Saturn?" Corinna stared into the absenting fire.

"Both," Ellen gaped at the evening star.

The whole peristaltic gestalt then wormed its own hole of ein klein bottle musik uncanned eerily from - as it bubbled to the kettle bottom - the sweet potato.

Off into Venus flew three vultures; faces anonymous under the silver sliver of a new moon. Stink they left. This their rite.

Mercury and the copper did, in their sordid union, whatever they did. And both it did make in the end sore.



Willie Smith lives in Seattle, America. He would feel better if you would kindly take a moment to visit: www.youtube.com/wsmith49.