Poetry Ricky Garni — October 20, 2011 13:28 — 0 Comments
Harps & Angels – Ricky Garni
Harpo Marx had a hat. Harpo Marx had a wig. The wig was attached to the hat. You could tap the hat and it would collapse. The hair on the wig was blond and curly. You could put the hat and the wig on a stand and you would almost have Harpo Marx. Everyone knows Harpo Marx from his hat and his wig. Some people didn’t know it was a wig. You could laugh when you see the hat, because you would think of all the funny things that Harpo Marx did in a hat with a wig. By now, you almost have Harpo Marx himself because you have his hat and his wig and all the funny things he did in your mind. But you don’t have Harpo Marx – you don’t have his spirit and his eyes and his voice and his feverish look and that feeling that he just might do anything at any time like honk a big car horn in your ear. Well, it doesn’t matter that you don’t have his voice. Harpo Marx never said anything. But Harpo Marx could speak. You see, some people would be surprised to see Harpo Marx without a wig or a hat and sitting at a restaurant saying “Check, please.†They would say, “Is that Harpo Marx? How could it be? Where is the hat and where is the wig and why is he saying ‘Check, please?’†But if you look right in front of you right now, you can see the hat and wig of Harpo Marx on a stand. You might even say, “Look! It’s Harpo Marx!†But which one really is Harpo Marx? Please don’t say both. And look over there again. There is a stand on a table but there is no wig and there is no hat. But there is a man there and he is holding a hat and a wig under his arm and gesturing to the lady at the door. “Check, please!†he says. He seems happy. What does he think he just bought? It’s hard to say. I think he is in a hurry. And it’s easy to disagree. I say “a harp.†You say “an angel.†Maybe it’s nothing. But as the man walks out the door I notice a few blond hairs falling to the ground.
What am I?
Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies
Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,
Consequence;
Scientists can't find me.
Januswise I make us men;
Glamour
Was my image then—
Remind me:
The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…
Tick, Tock: Divine me.
-- Richard Kenney