Dip Says Hi
M. Scott Douglass

Rank Stranger Press, 2005
Poetry, 36 pages, $6

ISBN 1-930907-84-2

DIP SAYS HI

 

Through the magic of Star
Trek, Jonny Quest, Maxwell
Smart technology, a proud Mom
views her boy propped in front
of a yellow road sign as Dad
offers color commentary and
a deadpan man in a dark trench
coat responds in his best Joe
Friday/Fox Mulder.

In the space above, the digital
postcard pinballs across the cold
cosmos, coming to light on
a distant place, where an alien
face flexes a universal sign
from ear hole to ear hole—ah,
the subtleties of the human
experience.

Meanwhile, a boardroom blooms
with big smiles and all thumbs
up, as a chorus of capitalists sings
Hallelujah in the background.

And we all sprint to the nearest
cell phone store, not for free
anywhere, anytime minutes,
free roaming, rollovers, or
spearmintment, but
because little Dip says, “Hi,”
or something like that, and
it’s a kinda-hadda-be-there
kind of thing where, I guess,
we kind of are.

 

WHAT’S IN YOUR WALLET

 

When barbarians storm the gate
or Cinderella’s feeling frisky;
when the gas tank’s on “E”
and you’ve got no place
but no place to go; when
Medieval Knievel just took
his first shot at stardom
at the Renaissance Festival
and now he’s talking tour
with Clay Aiken (once
the swelling goes down);
when the fish are jumping
and Buck’s Boats & Bait
is down to its last rental
and doesn’t take American
Express; for all the things
you want to do, isn’t it good
to know your platinum passport
to everywhere you want to be
is right there with you,
holding the door,
never holding you back,
your gateway to unrestricted
satisfaction, to memories
you’ll never forget, especially
when the bill arrives each month
to tell you, you are priceless.

 

DAREDEVIL DUCK

 

There’s a duck down
in aisle five, slipped on
a banana, tripped over
a box of Wheaties,
dominoed every rack
from produce to frozen foods—
can’t wait to see the bill.
Good thing we got that
insurance, you know,
the one that lets even bad
drivers climb mountains,
old folks rest at home
in soft wheelchairs
with private chauffeurs
while the grandkids make
babies anytime anywhere
after performing a triple-Lutz
during half-time at the big game.

(Time to light up a cigarette.)

Yes, there’s something here
for everyone who stumbles
into life hunting goodwill
through the pop dogma
of the dominant media.
Who feeds on ego-driven
hype and mediocrity.
And it’s no accident
that J-Lo’s face is pasted
on every magazine cover
in every checkout aisle
when it’s her jiggly butt
that really peaks our interest
(and who’s been rubbing
against it lately).

But it’s that daredevil duck
who keeps stealing the show,
stealing the girls’ panties, picking
pockets like a true professional.
There he is now in the fast-checkout line,
twelve items or less—looks like he’s
got none—pecking away at
the cover of the National Enquirer:
AFLAC, AFLAC, AFLA-A-A-C!!!

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M. Scott Douglass is the publisher, editor, primary designer and general floor sweeper at Main Street Rag Publishing Company. When he’s not reading and writing poetry, he’s usually working on getting someone else’s into print. He’s been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and is a grant recipient from the Arts & Science Council of NC. His other poetry collections include Auditioning for Heaven, Balancing on Two Wheels and Steel Womb Revisited.