By J.J. Tindall
My Mind is Like a Rhododendron
Let me be candid:
I like beer and I
love the ladies!
That’s the thing of it.
My mind is like a rhododendron:
everywhere it leaps, it eats.
This is the thing of it,
the rhododendron in the room.
It is not God.
It is the mind.
Sometimes my mind is myself,
a coterie of burgundy petals lost
in a Roman wilderness
of pain, waiting
for the summer rain.
Beer, ladies, gaeity. Jesus!
Of course!
Anything but the dreariness
of the me-mind-God thing.
This is America and I want to be free.
I wish to enjoy life.
So the elephant, wait,
the rhododendron in the room
is like my mind.
Bacon fat and buttermilk,
beeswax and bird’s eggs,
bear cubs and bridles,
comfort, joy.
Like an azalea that contains America!
This is a simile, which is the thing of it.
And, like the mind, it is like the mind.
It is not God.
Mind: like a lavender
West Virginia rhododendron.
I really do
love the ladies,
each a peculiar bloom!
Mind: like a sienna Saturn Five, the
biggest, baddest motherfucker known to man.
I did mean to be candid.
I do wish to enjoy life
in America.
I want to be free.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
Posted on May 31, 2012