Kate Carsella's Statler & Waldorf Poetry Cycle

Statler & Waldorf

Though I know your stance on “Dollar
Bill”, this feels apropos. When I do think

of you, I envisage ballet;
Nijinsky, Ballets Russes:

leapt across the stage. Not
anything like it but gaping linen—horizontal.

Transfixing, belting, distilling us all.
Don’t worry—You got that good juju.

I can’t envy. I only plead: build me. Build me
as a condor. Something I do envy.

We are but two Flying Dutchmen.
Flying Dutchmen who love TV.

Calumny is our sport. We love
sport. And cigarette tea.




Statler & Waldorf: Redux
Put all the birds in the potbelly stove.
Time for our masks and wobbly knives.
Things have gotten so constabular, haven’t they.
Won’t, don’t, shout.

Time for our masks and wobbly knives.
Over red apple smokes, on squalls we dine.
Won’t, don’t, shout.
Slips of the tongue make the heart grow fonder.

Over red apple smokes, on squalls we dine.
I am stone cold.
Slips of the tongue make the heart grow fonder.
You are the eloquent mansard roof.

I am stone cold.
We are Siamese, if you please.
You are the eloquent mansard roof.
We are Siamese, if you don’t please.

We are Siamese, if you please.
Things have gotten so constabular, haven’t they.
We are Siamese, if you don’t please.
Put all the birds in the potbelly stove.




Statler & Waldorf: Indexically
'Beware of false prophets which come to you in sheep's clothing, 
but inwardly, they are ravening wolves. 
Ye shall know them by their fruits.' 
—The Night of the Hunter. Dir. Charles Laughton. (1955)

Across the stage, leapt; The Spectre of the Rose
bite, Oh-heavens-to-Betsy you don’t even know
Camel: code for love
Condors have slips of the tongue, too.
constables are puny by nature—let us recall, shall we?
Dollar Bill is sonnetfather, a Regular Joe lauded as they usually are,
Drat.
Flying Dutchmen passing in the allday everyday
Flying Dutchmen don’t belong in cow country
Flying Dutchmen. In the struggle.
geek: an undulating buoyance of distorted basis

golden TV is only our cover story
mansard gambrel gangrel goon-maimer
masks are props, guys.
Nijinsky wordplay and somehow, a farmhouse baroque
potbelly stove is a vengeance wreaked with ramrod
Sometimes the drool on your pillow isn’t yours

calumny goes well with
Cigarette tea
Red Apple smokes at Jackrabbit Slim’s shall forever be
Siamese cats killing kids is a glamour
Siamese cats, or, for whom are cartoons?
Squalls of theirs are fucking delicious toxin
Statler & Waldorf
stone cold is a phrase change a man did not envision
Waldorf & Statler
Wobbly knives, as opposed to The Singing Knives.

All knives, I know.


Kate is a professional wrestling scholar, Asst. Editrix of Storm Cellar Literary Journal, and a UWM Master's student.