Poppycock-a-doodle drawn in salary. Two fortnights and a quiz,
on the ratio of feathers to fin to arcs of the flying fish of Patagonia.
Balance. Subsequently annulled. Ripe yellow fire hydrant putting
the fear of drowning back into play. But. A velvet yet. The fire was
already gone. The frogmen are suited up. Not to be ecclesiastical.
But the curmudgeons need a good dousing. A real scrubbing the
lights. The one uppance in the great dichotomy slipping into
something comfortable. Seven Japanese lanterns and a wooden
Russian doll to wile away the symposiums. To enfranchise the
uncarbonated quest for justice, in the vats of sacramental caffeine.
The halls of vast tunbellies. The cradles of a notion of salvation, in
the last throes of leprosy crawling on the skin of someone you used
to know. A face from the yearbook scowls in Spanish. The old
riders of the purple sage pack it up, sell their memoirs for rights to
the taste of saltine crackers, stuck to the lips of dorm mothers
decorating a purgatory of lime green walls with pictures uncolored
by the tilt of manic confessions. The crack in the armor allows the
unescorted to see. An ephemera stretching out its legs for a long
vacation. A cumulative mosaic amounting to a thought, passing for
a straight arrow in the heart of a martyr: for the right to sleep in
church of nods and skies to come alone to say it’s raining,
whatever it takes to live as if it never, no, never, not once.
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