Sonic Poetry :: Menu
Morgan the elephant sung tunefully to himself as he inspected his
uncle's lozenge rings. Thoughtfully, he spread them like stale
peppermints on the floor of the antichamber.
And who should walk by but the great Oppenheim, fresh from a
sabbatical in Wild Spring, Kentucky, home of the bunion grip.
In he strode, nine legs supporting his harvest bag, a winch of tobacco
snout on his filter pipe, a druid bassinet caressing his knee mole.
Morgan appeared uncertain -- as to how to deal with this breach of
discretion, a sudden critique of pure phenomena.
He made a cautious movement toward his mountain patch, thinking it
protection from the intruder, but Oppenheim squinted piercingly,
never one to be left out of the proceedings, and enveloped the
elephant while begging him for small coins for a philanthropic venture
whelped by the neighborhood grenadine chapter.
Morgan gasped throatily, producing several wild avian sounds, not to be
confused with Winchester, the bird of high reason, who resides
in the planar belfry atop the Lower East Garbanzo Plant. Where he
has worked, mostly in the role of consultant.
A meeting of minds was inevitable: for both Morgan and Oppenheim had a
verbal lineage of bioflavinoid proportions, derived from a mini one-
on-one hockeymatch in which Rochester hosted Assabet Valley.
The resolution was immediate: each performed a semi-circular plie
naturel while nodding sagely at a point on the floor six inches
from the suture junket. And now peace and barter stirrups have reentered
the filter gate, with a Porsche and a turnip strainer not far behind.