Poetry & Prose by Jo VonBargen

(Parody - loosely based on ULYSSES, Chapter IV, by James Joyce. Written in Joycean style, Leopold Bloom and his wife, Molly, are superseded by Leapover and Mulie Broom. We’ve added a potbellied pig.)

Leapover Broom had a particular passion for feet, and regularly scarfed down the lower extremities of whatever birds or animals were obtainable. He liked thick henclaw soup, lightly braised insteps, toes fried with breadcrumbs, ankle bone stew. Best of all he loved sauteed crow feet, which gave his tastebuds the fine twang of faintly scented kudzu.

Feet were on his mind as he padded about the kitchen gingerly, putting Mulie’s breakfast on the humping tray. The kitchen was cold, though it was warm outdoors. It made him feel ruttish.

The burner reddened.

One more slice of Popptart for the tray. Not too many. His wife didn’t like her gut overly full. He turned, set the teakettle on the burner. Its spout stuck out, pouting. Hot water soon. Good. Parched.

E.G.A.D.

The potbellied pig waddled into the room.

“How now, brown sow?” laughed Broom. “Pray, saints! For all men need aid of hogs!”

“What is this esthetic babble you breeze?” sneered the pig, raising her tail.

“Oh, no you don’t, you arrogant swine!” he shouted, pushing her doorward. “Do your dirt in the dirt or I’ll pickle your feet for dinner!”

“Eat grits and die!” Piggums screeched, nostrils flaring.

“When pigs fly!” bellowed Leapover Broom.

THOSE SLIGHTLY OBSTREPEROUS PORKERS

Mr. Broom watched lovingly as her portly brown paunch cleared the threshold. Wonderful to see: her piebald swine hide, piggiferous butt, her piglet-pink eyes. He bent down to her as she returned, his hand held out.

“Here, Pigster, give us a kiss!” said Broom. “Want some prosciutto?”

“Hold your horses, Cyclops!” said the pig. “I’m sweating like a hog!”

And they calls pigs stupid. Absurd! Pigs understand us better than we do them. They forget nothing. Ineluctably, Piggrims progress.

“This little piggy went to market…” he said, wiggling her foot.

“Don’t threaten me!” shouted Piglet.

“I’m only teasing you, you four-legged whale!” pouted Broom.

“Call me Ishmael” commanded the Pig.

Afraid of mailmen she is, he mocked. Afraid of cats. I’ve changed my mind. I never saw such a stupid pig as this.

“Goat! Belial!” shrieked Pigwiggen.

“Quiet, you gassy gargoyle!” hissed Broom. “Enough!”

“Let us pray…” intoned Piggums.

Frisky, her nature. And Argus, the dog, never squeals. Seems to tolerate her piggybacking so long as he gets his pound of flesh. Maybe I should pound her fustian flesh for being such a pig in a poke.

“Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo” the pig sniffed.

“Could’ve just as well cast my pearls before Circe” said Broom.

“Pigs is pigs” shrugged the shoat.

HOW A GREAT ORGAN GOT TURNED DOWN

Tea poured, Mr. Broom climbed the creaky stairs to her room, pausing by the door. Mulie might want something good. She liked it in the morning.

He said softly in the hall, “Want anything this morning besides breakfast?”

“M m n n n”

No, she didn’t. Broom moaned sotto voce. It was the wettest of times, it was the burst of times. The bed squeaked as she sighed and turned over. He should leave her and go home to Tara but, what the hay, tomorrow’s another day and frankly, my dear, he didn’t give a fat ham. He must do something about those bed springs. You could hear them all the way to Ithaca.

“Mmmmnnnnn” said Mulie, stretching in her half sleep. “Povey, are there pigs in heaven?”

If we don’t spoonnestle soon, you’re going to find out, thought Broom, depositing the tray on the table.

“I have to go to a funeral” he told her, eyeing her ten little piggies piggishly.

Drool pooled his corner lip.

“Mnnn…who?” asked Mulie.

“Pottrose. You know, that miserly, landhogging pig farmer. At eleven. St. Canard’s.”

Downstairs, he put on his hat. Felt his pocket for the keys. Outside. Warm sun. Might wander all day. Faces. More faces. Places. Evening. Children gone in. Flutes. Violins. Moon up, the color of Mulie’s new drawers.

He approached the neighborhood bar.

OMINOUS GATHERUM

“Poor Pottrose!” said the Lotus Eaters browngravily.

Gathered round them were all he knew:

Harley Homogeneous, Barley Bronchopneumaeus, Fitzlow Peritonaeus, The Dharma Bums, Who In The Sam Hill, Ichabod Crane, Henry Chinaski, Pliny the Other, Kokomo Joe, Curly, Moe and Abednego.

High, high, they carried their mugs, clinked Pottrose away round by round.

“Oh Potty Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling….”

“All bets on the pale horse” Chinaski breathed heavily.

“Rest in peace, Pottrose! wailed Fitzlow.

“Pabulum Acheruntis” Broom sneered. “A fool and his pigs are soon parted!”

“For shame!” cried the profane herd.

“Well, if you want to know…” sniffed Broom defensively, “he amounted to nothing but a lot of pig wind. The tight geezer was so narrowminded he had to stack his prejudices vertically!”

“Three six nine, the goose drank wine,
They sent him off to Heaven on the rail car line,
Four six eight, Hell was his fate,
He’d counted on his porkers to trample Heaven’s gate!”

Broom changed his mind about the funeral, leaving the lot of them behind. Inexplicable, he mused to himself. The idiots mourn the fresh absence of a long-nagging wart.

PIGMALION

Passing one drunk, two travelers and three widow pigs, Mr. Broom followed the heady scent of entrails to the butcher’s. In the window, two mismatched feet, last of the lot, crow blood oozed on the plate. Blood of the crow. Crud of the blow. Bleeding Croesus!

A girl at the counter, placing her order. Nice hourglass shape. The butcher wrapped up a ound of pigglypink hot links and took her money.

“Thank you, Miss. Your change.”

Mr. Broom ordered quickly, watching her hips swing side by side out the door. You-push-me-up, I’ll-pull-you-down. You-push-me-up, I’ll-pull-you-down. GLORY! His heart went like mad and Yes, he thought, Yes, I can. Yes! Hurry up. Chop or get off the pot. Moving away fast. Delectable. Ham, gam, Shazzam!

“Three dollars, please” said the butcher.

Broom’s hands closed lovingly around the crow feet. He slid the white packet into his coat pocket, fumbling three bills on the counter.

“Thank you, sir. Come again!”

The girl was gone. Broom’s fantasy down the commode. She could have been his next mistress…fine enought for a waltz on the Danube. A calypso on Calypso. Alas.

Broom walked back slowly, reading billboards. COME TO JAMAICA. COME TO MARLBORO COUNTRY. Y’ALL COME TO ARKANSAS.

It was getting hot. Apples at a street stand. Long days pruning, picking, packing. Pied, sauced, baked, stewed. Mulie slurping down coolcold cider. Apples in crates. Mulie, bobbing for apples. Bobbies, mewling for apples. Nice to fondle, nice to smell. Heavy, always the same. Washington apples from everywhere. Hallowed Be This Day.

THE WIND

“Kindly ebb, sir, to that place where our gists converged and resurrect sesquipedalian eruptions!”

BROOM

“I’m blocked.”

THE COLLECTIVE UNCONSCIOUS

“And we all whispered madly, Persephone come, please come.
When pigs fly, says she, or after the snows, in your softer years,
when your drifts of blood become pools of tears,
when I won’t (newly budded) be trampled to death
by your angst, your fears (she hasn’t yet come)”

THE TREES

“Badda bing, badda boom.”

A SHOAT IN A SHIRT

Mr. Broom picked up the mail, sifting through it on his way up the walk. A letter for him, one for Mulie.

Upstairs, he pulled up her blinds. She opened an eye.

“Mail for you, Mulie. Gonna sleep all day?”

“Ummm. Povey? I want coffee.”

It never ends, he said to himself. Waiting for the perk, Broom opened the letter from his daughter. Gossip, gossip, gossip, thanks, gossip. The bloody feet, unwrapped, lay by the pan. Butter sizzled. More gossip. Silly girl. He smiled. Plopped into the skillet, the crow contracted, hissed, crisped in the butter. He poured Mulie’s coffee. Forked the meat, flipped it. Lowered the burner.

Index finger hooked in the steaming mug, he slogged up the stairs.

“You took your time” said Mulie.

The springs squawked as she raised up on an elbow for the coffee. Broom leered at her feet peeking out from the quilt. He thought he could smell them, all piggeous and toejam redolent.

“Who was the letter from?” he asked.

“Guggenheim, chair of the program committee.” she lied.

“What are you going to sing?”

“Little Egypt” said Mulie.

“Came a-struttin’, wearin’ nuttin’ but a button and a bow-woe-woe…?”

“The same.”

“I won’t even ask what you’re wearing.”

She slurped the coffee and, watching him ogle her toes, pushed the letter from her lover out of sight.

“Something burning?” she asked.

“Gadzooks! The feet!”

He galloped down the stairs, harpooned them with a fork, tossed them on a plate. Good. Not much char. He poured himself an iced tea. Speared the first bite. Slowly, unashamedly, he closed his eyes, mouthing the crow. What a beautiful way to die.

“Dearest Papiya,

Gossip, gossip, gossip. Thanks for the FAB birthday present! My friends all love riding around Troy with the top down, with their tops down! Oh, and I got Mam’s glow-in-the-dark raincoat assortment….cool! Gossip, gossip. See you soon. Send more money.

Love, Macadamia”

Sixteen. Only yesterday, a babe in arms. The nursery at the hospital was full. Babies everywhere. Crappy diapers, vomit. A lot of vomit. His son, Telly, would be alive now if Broom hadn’t slipped in it. STOP IT. Don’t agonize. Little girlie can take care of herself.

EFFLUVIUM IN EXCELSIS

Piggins, done with Broom’s orts, nosed the crow cartilage off the plate and waddled to the door.

“Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones” she oinked, rocking back and forth. Thunder in the abyss. Broom felt it, too.

Piglet grunted.

“Oink!” teased Broom, holding her back. “Wait, already!”

“Wait yourself, you pompous, pigowning poltroon!” yelled the pig.

“Hey, diddle diddle, forget the old fiddle
A pig’s gotta do what a pig’s gotta do!”

“Outside!” ordered Broom.
He plopped down, too, in the loo, to read. O, hallowed walls of contemplation!

Sang Piglum:

“Doots, doots, boe boots, bonanna fanna foe feuts,
Fee, fie foe, feuts….Pig Doots!”

Kindred spirits, indeed, thought Broom. Fraternal Order of Doots. It was perfectly logical, this so, so common ground of humanity and pigs. The coiled, steaming plasma of history.

Broom smiled. It all, well and truly, comes out in…

THE END

–Jo 2008