Friday, August 22, 2008

A Bullet Reimagined

What is more arid than not happening repeatedly. In handcuffs at least one fear can be faced.

A last glisten in the tall grass where the weather was only just catching up. She, he, both, together.

A land of plenty in which hunger could only appear in certain fairy tales. A bureau falling down a dozen flights of stairs, yet nothing blowing out of its drawers.

When I forgot how to type, I heard music, a calliope. And sailors, their hats shining in the winter dark like little platters of snow.

Of, to, without and then the more so. A line that spiked and in doing so reminded you of marlin.

The canvas sails were moldy but remained folded. Nobody would say what had happened to his uncle's car, whether it had been sold, to whom, or if instead it had been junked.

A letter won't offer the way out but in another way. Yet purple contained - or channeled maybe - the rougher, the buzzing, the hornets of desire.

So crooked as to be impossible though still lovely. Where the bay was lit up by the rising sun they agreed to make changes in the way they allocated their earnings.

Guillotines, valentines, training manuals. The last goldfish in the world slowly spiraled down through dusty tank water while underpaid attendants looked on bored.

The nickel felt like a bullet reimagined. The poem had fur, like your teeth during a hangover.

No comments:

Post a Comment