SUCHNESS, Barbara Ruth

SUCHNESS
by Barbara Ruth

My kangaroo is a windmill, festooned with gabardine chopsticks,
Praise songs and pointers spill from her pouch, no worries, she knows where
to get more, 
so geometrically boxing, so Australo-Dutch
in the best sense. Pity
I'm required to hide the hydrangeas, throw up 
dividers among the low riders.
She bites the nuclear power plants, shits
on the tables of OPEC, oh but her geodetic blades
taste of flight and renewable resources. Razing a ruckus, she owns twenty organic 
tie-dyed tee shirts silk-screened visions of oil rigs in Venezuela
the words "If you must" on the back.  She blows low
whaley sounds as she rescues the miners and
cries tears of ancestral fire onto the bottom line.
She wonders what would have happened if Hallie Burton had been crowned Miss Galveston at 
16, before call waiting, before I-pods, before she
commandeered the Texas cole slaw and called it democratization.
My windmill talks to the whippoorwills, incites them to whisper "make wind!" 
into the yearnings of synthetic chocolate ambassadors chock full of cufflinks and crank.

My kangaroo has taken a vow of hydrangea-abstinence, on the orthodox 
dub of Jamaica plains, the Hapsburg Rasta Fari.
She altars from Catholic with  large c to small.
She's the weather balloon and the weather, fetching 
in
cre
dual
ity
in her needs, by your ease, by the knock of our knees,
my anime gale-gatherer, my lowlands 'roo gone amuck.
Diverting herself from the blood sports now she's taken up didgeridoo. It suits her.

There were days she horned in at the crap shoots in Reno then somehow vanished in crossover 
states; sometimes a line of dialogue edged up its bets and no one was ever the visor.
Ghostly grey grubs of gratitude 
offered prostrations at dawn as they gathered their girdles, then trudged back
to casino fat chances, trolling the slots 
of the Paris Hilton, the Singapore Ritz, the largesse of the largest larder.
She informs me.

My windmill kangaroo darling oozes edicts from
her adventurous armpits and fenestrations. I love her all the more.
She likes to nod my direction and feyly say,
"This is my Mum, my coconut curare tart.
Since Dadaism swept the land she sometimes
just Pops in our gated 'hood."
The intersexual interdictions write themselves on the chateau walls:
We will hymn harmlessly, of hermeneutic buoys, grills for the barbie.
We will gather the loofahs of loathing in Daylight Savings Thyme.
We'll bump and we'll box 
with the Dutch dependability of bumblebees.
Bronzed-plated gangsters jitterbug in the hall, the gall of infamy
while acolytes interview armchair contestants out
back.

Oh windy-dipped Joey, mein knaedele, mi corazon, imsh'allah, la guerre est fini.
Behold, the dikes serve condiments to beclouded Marines,
holding up their end of the bargain.
Misted marsupials conjugate on Pollux, distracting 
Gemini all to hell, but my 'roo needs no grammar, she's already 
a star without roaming so far 
a field.
It's a Hollander-Aussie, air-arm pouch thing.
You wouldn't understand.
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