Jussi Bjorling's Ambulances

Jussi Bjorling's Ambulances


Thwart is a word prickled by interbreeding,
same with Ozymandias,
ratchet and swizzle. What’s it called,
or what’s the diagnostic
when words like these slather themselves
in fake blood on the cellar walls
of euphony’s falling down mansion?
Trundle, Eurotrash and anything ending in i-l-e
excite me equally, even sexually,
like Belgian chocolate or
bondage movies. Which is not to say I am one
whose syntax or meaning is parsed intently,
rather it’s like watching the skies
during an air show and from a great distance
comes a blimp. No longer are our newest military jets
of interest, or the Flying Fortresses dipping a wing
to signify something nearly Masonic in hidden lore,
instead, focus is locked on the dirigible.
Words can be like that. Their definition
is hardly the point, like pressurized gas.
Form is closer to the cob of it all, or smell—
yes, but how to explain the earthy stench
of catalyst or badinage?

Let’s tack cross-wind a moment shall we?
Jussi Bjorling was a galvanic Swedish tenor,
also something of a cad, but regardless
his lyrical tone surpassed all but Caruso.
When ending the final cadenza on high B
in Rigoletto’s La donna e mobile, ticketholders
fainted dead away, ambulances
became integral to his legend.
Reciting Aunt Jemima’s recipe for tollhouse cookies
could equally have floored his rubber-legged patrons:
it wasn’t the score, nor brio,
nor Verdi’s excavation into schmaltz—
instead, the piercing odor of form proved too gigantic
for the untested, even 3 floors heavenward.

Cellophane, merle, positron—Christ,
I’d beg these syllabics to abuse me and throw me
in a ditch. Using pollywog as a verb
rouses my curious essence into drool.
Bring out the mares from limbic stalls,
I’ll ride the palomino into full emersion.
Pamper me oh my snarl, sprinkle
talc and balm into the crafters’ tall cotton.
Behemoth me, you big spender you!


(Image above is a digital photo by Tudor Kline, 2007).
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