Wayne
Chambliss
_______________________________________________________________
from THE TRAVELING SALESMAN PROBLEM
For the past several years, I have flown from city to city peddling a variety
of products such as biological agents, content management software, and
engineering services. During that time, I’ve made a habit of sending my
managers postcards entirely preoccupied with my sobriety, financial
instability, erotic fatigue, and political naďveté.
The following selection includes four such postcards, mailed between
Q3, 2001, and Q2, 2004—during which time I represented my firm in Palo Alto, CA,
Seattle, WA, Chicago, IL, Jacksonville, FL, and various other cities. Although
construed individually from an idea of history more crooked than Boss Tweed,
the poems are arranged here, collectively, in reverse chronological order.
WC
An egret makes its egress.
(Je)Zeus and
Poseidon are in détente.
Collecting her whites from the lines, a negress
resembles en passant.
Betties either Page
or Grable, braised on the old wooden docks.
Taking a page from Aesop, cable’s fables
start with Fox.
Aghast, you gaze at
razed and/or rising up
in arms.
Ripping the RZA. Even La Raza
weighs so far right
what’s left is Kharms.
Redundant as the "L"™,
another Corman-like op-ed:
Louis Pasteur vs. Terrorist Cells.
And a civilian barber enquires, “y para usted?”
Up 94 floors, there's no point stopping.
Call it an unconfirmed assumption.
The PoV is of rain dropping.
Higher than Thelonious Monk in
Straight, No Chaser: the maitre d'
does his best St. Peter.
Dialing Beatrix,
dying to meet her. Hell’s got more rings than Derek Jeter.
Long day’s journey into fuck all.
In the aquarium with Gilles
de Rais. U Dub or else you dancehall.
Either way, there are bills
to pay. Ergo, the IL-1 Beta.
According to our data:
This little piggy went to market…
This little piggy got cancer…
This little piggy was boiled down for
proteins. I forget
the question. Money’s
the answer.
Smoking like Svevo. Shirt-sleeves
rolled.
Watching the S&P Panzer
from
House neč
Stanford.
The pteranodon's suffered a second
extinction.
Our flamingos have flown the coop.
Soldier ants, having served with distinction,
across the linoleum no longer troop.
It's quieter than I remember. I work for an underripe
fruit.
One could do worse, I suppose, for
September. But the point would be moot.