Dreaming of National Pickle Day. Second Edition
A collection of selected poems
© 2003 by Danielle Arsenault

Poems:
Gloves
Picking strawberries
Aphrodisiac oysters
Horoscope
The track suit man
New York City night
Pie Guy
Swim parallel to shore
Bad News
Contraband Cowboy
This old corn field Ribbon Falls

Gloves
They would find gloves every time they were dropped off
A thumb for a ride
This is all because eight people decide the fate of eight billion
(Really no one knew why)
The Highway proved the missing link for reconstructing gloves

Give me a million years to sponsor independent
- Unbolted open to the elements-

Before selling out to corporate bullshit
Indiscernible bodies gather in peace
Rigid police align the streets
Repeat supremacy control and contempt guilt
Dominance and disregard
I can hear their grunts now
Raucous rancid ear-splitting


Picking strawberries
My eyes dart purposefully beyond the
Sweet
Strawberries
Whispering child-like fables in the burnished moonlight
Uncomplicated purity p
l u
m
m
e
t
s

To the solid ground
Simpleminded innocence instigates defenselessness contributions
While imprisoned dreams remain at a standstill – throbbing
Dizzy streams of nomadic lust dwindles
Snatching pungent pale petals

Pulse is racing
Clinging limply to a blank verse


Aphrodisiac oysters
Sitting at the River Café
Sucking on sexy oysters spicy by the fire
Now I listen to cheesy eighties love songs
But they give me a reason to smile
Because they are all singing about me (in that cheesy way)

Just good or fantastic or fabulous
Or what if a boy just told you he loved you
Ten hours in a canoe
With sun, water, fishes and good green apples
That can survive a good long haul


Pie Guy
In the blink of an eye beneath the mackerel sky
Dominated by a Mediterranean fruit fly,
On the fourth of July in over supply,
I trip on a railroad tie and drop my pumpkin pie –
A far cry from a private eye in tie-dye.
That small fry in Junior High with his tongue-tied
Unlike a Northern Spy, he was very shy

“Please reply to the public eye
We dare you to try to balance a pie”

So hard in the court yard
The Security guard growing Swiss chard to keep guard.
So discard that retard with his strike hard arm guard
And bombard his green card while he escapes through the front yard

Running away with no delay
Wishing he could stay to share my cheese soufflé

He cheats on the downbeat
At the track meet on Jump Street
Honey sweet, on the concrete love seat
Indiscreet and incomplete
Eating luncheon meat in the summer heat
The question sheet – his reason to retreat.

My eyes run dry while I cry,
Goodbye good guy, who could balance a pie in the blink of an eye.