John Findura
5 selections from Glossolalia
**
You made up lyrics
.........No, I made up lyrics you made up a melody
There lyrics were not there before we arrived
so one of us made them up and you sang them
I ran my fingers over the six strings
you sang the lyrics.........I wrote the song
___
There’re bushels and bushels of apples and not much
else out here. Remember we had to steal them and
push a wheelbarrow through the unpaved streets back
to the house? Those were no apples, I can tell you now.
They were ears and mouths. Everyone knew that sometimes
right over the border on the west side of town people
got tired of listening and talking so they cut off their ears
and mouths. We put them in an unruly wheelbarrow.
Did your aunt tell you? We didn’t make pies out of them;
that’s ridiculous and you know it. They were neatly
planted in window boxes and the old women waited for
them to sprout. You ask what did they sprout, and then
I tell you red apples.
___
We were talking about synesthesia and of course I was
feeling you taste about it but you were oh so focused
on the conversation. There was a brief video clip
before you recited pi to twenty-two thousand decimal
places and I made coins disappear in my hands,
although truthfully, they did not really disappear.
Some of them did, but not all of them, which is even
more impressive. Please, do tell me if you were
impressed. We taped off a good deal of the room and
threw empty water balloons at each other to dry off.
That’s not how it works, I signed. One of us was very
smart, you said. We both smiled knowingly but now
I’m not so sure. You tell me who you thought and I’ll
tell you who I thought.
___
.........Draw a map of the rooms
.........So we’ll know where to hide
___
We never did more than we did
That is a simple, verifiable fact
.........Even your fingers know that
but mine forget so easily and often
**
return to sawbuck 2.2
**
John Findura holds an MFA from The New School. His poetry and criticism appear in journals such as Mid-American Review, Verse, Fugue, Fourteen Hills, CutBank, Juked, No Tell Motel, H_NGM_N, Jacket, and Rain Taxi, among others. Born in Paterson, he lives and teaches in Northern New Jersey.
**
You made up lyrics
.........No, I made up lyrics you made up a melody
There lyrics were not there before we arrived
so one of us made them up and you sang them
I ran my fingers over the six strings
you sang the lyrics.........I wrote the song
___
There’re bushels and bushels of apples and not much
else out here. Remember we had to steal them and
push a wheelbarrow through the unpaved streets back
to the house? Those were no apples, I can tell you now.
They were ears and mouths. Everyone knew that sometimes
right over the border on the west side of town people
got tired of listening and talking so they cut off their ears
and mouths. We put them in an unruly wheelbarrow.
Did your aunt tell you? We didn’t make pies out of them;
that’s ridiculous and you know it. They were neatly
planted in window boxes and the old women waited for
them to sprout. You ask what did they sprout, and then
I tell you red apples.
___
We were talking about synesthesia and of course I was
feeling you taste about it but you were oh so focused
on the conversation. There was a brief video clip
before you recited pi to twenty-two thousand decimal
places and I made coins disappear in my hands,
although truthfully, they did not really disappear.
Some of them did, but not all of them, which is even
more impressive. Please, do tell me if you were
impressed. We taped off a good deal of the room and
threw empty water balloons at each other to dry off.
That’s not how it works, I signed. One of us was very
smart, you said. We both smiled knowingly but now
I’m not so sure. You tell me who you thought and I’ll
tell you who I thought.
___
.........Draw a map of the rooms
.........So we’ll know where to hide
___
We never did more than we did
That is a simple, verifiable fact
.........Even your fingers know that
but mine forget so easily and often
**
return to sawbuck 2.2
**
John Findura holds an MFA from The New School. His poetry and criticism appear in journals such as Mid-American Review, Verse, Fugue, Fourteen Hills, CutBank, Juked, No Tell Motel, H_NGM_N, Jacket, and Rain Taxi, among others. Born in Paterson, he lives and teaches in Northern New Jersey.
