Looking Down Polemic dandies emptying gestures of overtones pointing the way. Anecdotal circles felt full when rounding off what could have been as much as if it weren’t, a story with an end that doesn’t. Compound the peripheral with center staging journeys to the edge, of being within a distance prescribed as room to run no more. Tantamounted on burly steeds, giving rides their chance to get somewhere while nowhere waits in the wings. Monumentally at risk of slipping through cracks, commemorating the fissures that opened whole worlds to a sinking feeling it’s true. A premonition in the residue turning time into treasure, at a distance stood still for the past to take its bow. Marginalizing a thoroughfare to having forgotten as a friend, with which to rely upon a future cracking backs and forth in the concrete world to come. The precipitous promise of a lean into a tomorrow one hurdle away from the likelihood of falling, into luck as the valley would have it. *** x 2 Duplicities one at a time till counted twice the weight allowed. Colloquial vittles stuffing teddy bears on the laps of statues gone south for the winter. Due to be borne upon the backs baring burdens, for what they are as less the more they seem to be. Veritable horsemen riding stick ponies into the mind’s eye, on a monkey’s business climbing heights never to be heard from again. Clustered by halves cozied up to the whole, as meant to be what can’t be by virtue of two to the fore of the parade. Flabber gassing the trenches from well above it all. Juxtaposing for pictures wrought in single minded pursuit of the u-turns, down happy trails leading to belief in what comes with greetings from the box. *** Tapping Elliptically forthwith loosening feet foundered in step with legs lost to the dance. Piquant darlings of the aftertaste waxing nostalgic for the mouthful, lost to a flavor of silence as food for thought. Rambles through wrinkles in the time to be still for the dust to settle. Choreographed to last the falling into luck of the drawn upon, to make broken strides matter in gaits swung to clear the path as integrally akin to where it is it ends. *** ***
TWICE, I FORGOT (1) I forgot once longing for an intermission. But love is also a source of difficulty. I forgot the pillow still shielding a stray tooth because someone believed in a fairy tale. TWICE, I FORGOT (2) I forgot the brother who gave me a rainbow trapped within enamel. I forgot, for him, she released milk to orphaned baby birds. TWICE, I FORGOT (3) I forgot it was not a blood teardrop—simply, the last red pepper hanging from a string in front of a white wall. I forgot soldiers whispering by a paltry stream, their eyes locked on the slimness of my ankles revealed through ripped cotton. THRICE, I FORGOT (1) I forgot moths as the sun disappeared—“the flutter of wings as they teased a dim porch light.” I forgot entrancement with the layered auras of decay. I forgot a water lily forms instantaneously. THRICE, I FORGOT (2) I forgot releasing breath solely to describe milk transformed by your scent. I forgot Tequila Corazon de Agave alchemized from the heart of blue agave bred in the rich, red soil of the “Highlands” in Arandas, Jalisco, Mexico. I forgot “Mutual Funds” is an oxymoron. THRICE, I FORGOT (3) I forgot the seduction of wet cobblestones. I forgot the blinding whiteness of a thick porcelain mug sunning itself on your windowsill. I forgot those dolls—for a moment, their eyes had relaxed. *** ***
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Living Theater The sprinkler continues sending out its arcs of gleaming water that gravity converts to puddles. It’s like a story being told, like the hero stories sung continuously the thirty nights of Ramadan. A fly lands on a sunny portion of my notebook as I’m writing, sitting in my yard in the denim shirt I wore waiting on a bench for the museum to open in Madrid after we had had tostadas with café con leche— years ago, which translates to a million moments such as this, each one a link to then, and then. “And then?” the storyteller pauses for effect, unlike the way the story actually unfolds, each fold releasing all its secrets naturally, necessarily, without melodrama. *** Out of Order Because we weren’t tired, I guess, we got up, dressed, and drove through the dark town to have breakfast. It was the time to be tired in this middle-class town. The owners of the cars that would’ve been crowding the streets were still sleeping. A homeless man rested his head next to his coffee cup at IHOP when we walked in. Even the one waitress told us how tired she was, working the graveyard shift. The coffee she poured to “warm up” our coffee wasn’t any warmer. You’d think you could get coffee hot on a cold night, especially when paying two dollars for it. But the waitress knew the night was for sleeping. Who were we making demands, disturbing the town’s rest at 5 a.m.? *** ***
Vampire is drawn to the medieval gothic churches with the skeletons in glass cases lovingly draped with jewels and with thin chains made of gold placed along the outside stone walls. Vampire always picks a quiet time in the church, a time when the shadows are thick in the sanctuary.
Will the skeletons miss their gold and gems? Vampire does not think so, and doubts there are surviving relatives who will notice. Vampire has an excellent glasscutter and they can’t put together a life on blood alone.
This one needs a new pair of shoes. The old ones were nicked up by pigs, plus, during his down time, Vampire likes to waste hours and hours playing video games. He wants the new version of “Grand Theft Auto.”