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Jacket 19 — October 2002   |   # 19  Contents   |   Homepage   |  Catalog   |
This issue of Jacket is a collaboration with Verse magazine

Anna Rabinowitz


Millennia were held at bay, the credos knew their place,
The gravel throat confessed she played with microphones and lace,
The ice cream cones stormed center stage beset by flagrant lights,
And roses skipping from the wings demanded equal rights.

The world’s a gas, so diddle dee. Oh nonny no the vapors flow.
The world’s a glass. It hosts our rub to rose its rosey glow.    

The plot was tall, the humans short, it mattered not at all
That count-downs raged, that tongues grew wild, that crass eyes came to call.
The acts poseured, the dancers split, their twists unjigged the scene;
With mouths stained red they thickly smooched rigged flavors on the screen.

The world’s a gas, so diddle dee. Oh nonny no, the trumpets crow.
The world’s a glass. It begs a scrub to toast its rosey glow.

The evidence that huddled there across the wide divide
Where angels reared and windows peered and bikers hit their stride
Was stuffed with bread and cigarettes, with bitten backs and knees,
As svelte batons tweek-tapped sleek beats to fluff the loose-leafed trees.

The world’s a gas, so diddle dee. Oh  nonny no how do we know?
The world’s a glass. It licks its lips to taste for rosey glow.

The flasher came to flip her skirt, the vixen hurled her hair
While stagehands broomed the bloomy stems, and petals rosed the air.
Stilletto heels kicked up plump toes and fingers flexed to nail
The window washer loping left, then pirouetting with his pail.

The world’s a gas, so diddle dee. Oh nonny no where do we go?
The world’s a glass. It craves the view and cranes for rosey glow.

The aftermath was lowered down, the scaffolding rose up.
The beepers squeaked, the sensors squealed, we kids shrieked in our cups.
Ten squeegees roamed the foggy panes, the washer groped on tippy toes,
But Sturm und Drang upstaged the lot midst tweetling dozey does.

The world’s a gas, oh diddle dee, and nonny no to seeds we stow.
The world’s a glass where roses preen to sheen the rosey glow.

Jacket 19 — October 2002  Contents page
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