——–for David Trinidad
Mr. Slate Mr. Rubble and a certain Mr. Flintstone
walk into a Hanna-Barbera cartoon in their hardhats
hard rock playing, pterodactyls swaying, and there goes
Stony Curtis to the roulette wheel run by a dino.
It’s casino night at the Rockadero, and Mick Jagged
and the Stones are singing, “You can’t always speak
so you grunt.” With his gravelly voice. Flintstone
orders just rocks on the rocks. Rubble has a double
anything, but neat. Martini dry and up for Slate.
Everyone’s a fossil here, his boss will complain, but Fred
has such primitive needs. A rack of ribs big enough
to tip his auto over. A woman who goes to bed
with bones in her hair instead of curlers (& for nibbles).
Someone to curl up with on the mammoth rug on the floor
of their cave. It’s a trog-eat-trog world out there.
Fred strikes a flint and is a god of fire. Somewhere
in Bedrock Ann-Margrock is thinking of this man’s club,
his humungous feet and the hunger of the saber tooth.
If only she could go back in time. Before her star
rose above the tar pits. Before petroleum killed them all:
Pebbles. Bamm-Bamm. The Flintstones. The Rubbles.
D.A. Powell’s most recent collection is Atlas T (Rescue). Recipient of the 2019 John Updike Award from the American Academy of Arts & Letters, he teaches at the University of San Francisco.
