Jack Foley and Richard Loranger



Shuffle Ball Change...but s l o w l y executed
s p e c t a c l e of freefall or
without bodies we isn’t, but with,
impulsively, raising all the limbs at once
ouch—well, raising most of them
except perhaps the little heart that grounds itself
oh, and grinds itself too!
And in the grind we riffle
(We trifle, we don't triffle)
and occasionally waffle
when to far lands we traffle
for a baffle or a  f r e e f a l l
(ah, it baffles me how we baffle:
I’d hit you with my cane except
I’d probably fall down—f r e e f a l l )
that could land us in the land 
of canes and utterly resolve
—but ahh, w i t h o u t
or is it w i t h i n ?
Fo S’nam Tsrif Ecneidebosid!
The defiant act of walking
Gnis, Ylnevaeh Esum!
(I can walk forwards & backwards too
As well as sideways: I'd walk with you)
(gnignis) “S’tel ekat na dlo-denoihsaf klaw!”
And once again you've whipped around
you whipporwill gnignis ni eht niar—


At the crucial moment the Charlie Chan character always said, “Watch out—he has a 
revolver (levorvel!).” He has a what?
And I borrowed your gun.
Got him!—Another myth taken care of. (But the suckers keep showing up again and 
Like swans on a cheek
or swains at a creek (nubile the nymphs!)
popping up to codify
(people think me odd if I multiply or modify)
the myth of myriad naiades within:
How do you do, Myth. May I be of thervice in thome way?
And BLAM! the lascivious lisp is liquified:
Lisp to me only with thine eyth
so the luthiouth tide may tithe
tenderly, and with something of a flair for the dramatic
as cares crash upon the crucial strand
seraphs settle in the sand,

Smells like another delightful
time to be transsexual
blasting through the neutral
and basting
the tasty trigger Tantalus
who smothers me with panty lust
and all my rust, I trust, is trussed
and crossed with crust (in God we're trussed!—my God! your bust!)
like hot crossed buns with a bodkin buss
Manuel, it looks as though we’ve found another one
hunting the Hun with a ruptured sun
The dead troop through the living room with open hands
taunted by sex 
and ruined by the terrible events in Syria
hamhocks falling from the sky
and a man with a heart as large as the sun

He said his name was Richard Loranger but I knew that (whoever he was) he 
was not Richard Loranger.
There was a wolf somewhere, pacing in the department store.
Now, that was Richard Loranger.
In the distance, one Jack Foley scratched on a wall.
A second Jack Foley appeared, announcing that he was Richard Loranger.
Two Foleys, but which one was oranger?
Faith, both were green, sd Foley and Foley. Was that the Lone Ranger or the Low Ranger? 
(Or the Known Stranger?)
Stranger yet, one Foley was following folly, while the other, ranging lowly,
Cried, “Folie, I praise it, but Lor’—anger!”
(Have you heard of Mitt “R” Money?)
Silence dropped, folly dropped, and sweet truth dropped from le oranger.
And what, asked Yelof, of la orangerie?
That is where the wolf paces, exclaimed the unfollied one in the foliage of the low range.

Munchy scrunchy Moo-moo Mouth set out to find his due.
Ritzy ditzy Froo Froo Grind set out to find hers too.
And in the midst of findingness the Moo and Froo did scree:
Said Moo to Froo, “Dear, shall we screw?” “Perhaps in Août,” said she.
(“Screw you,” said he.)  And so they tumbled in the lumpy brie, 
and graced the romp with scrumptious sump from Waterloo and Leigh.
“You’re old, my father,” said the son with subtle note of ire,
“I doubt that you would notice if your pants had caught on fire.”
“And yet we bring you matches,” turned the daughter on a screw, 
“to see if you can still retain your water in a stew.”
“Redact!” cried Moo, “and fire up your horrid hermeneutics
Though you’re an ancient hound dog, nonetheless I’ll teach you new tricks.”
So in the roux did Moo and Froo, whose blood remains unclear, 
a nearer due than ever knew rebrew, and oh so dear.
Remember in September, which is not month number seven,
We say that God’s good children go to hell and not to heaven
                                    (Go to hell and not to heaven.)