takes a break from his wares
dips
sticks and twine into the solution,
and presents as if he were christening
an orchestral movement.
opens this contraption to the breeze
and a bubble the size
of a unicorn pony bounds away into the distant horizon.
it’s difficult
opens this contraption to the breeze
and a bubble the size
of a unicorn pony bounds away into the distant horizon.
it’s difficult
for him to create this enchantment children
seek so fervently to destroy
a keepsake wallet-sized print-out
of his second infarction’s EKG
reminds him of mortality and a frame story
for an epistolary
about that one, small, family
of strangers we finally
let in, a mother and her child
the child developed the strength
of a middle aged tree,
but the ratio of candy to bruises
never changed
in his favor.
The narrator sounded
seek so fervently to destroy
a keepsake wallet-sized print-out
of his second infarction’s EKG
reminds him of mortality and a frame story
for an epistolary
about that one, small, family
of strangers we finally
let in, a mother and her child
the child developed the strength
of a middle aged tree,
but the ratio of candy to bruises
never changed
in his favor.
The narrator sounded
like this: I’ll take you away
from here right now,
but you’ll have to forget.
And you can’t remember
where we’re going.
Deal?
The townspeople whispered
abortion when the child grew
into what the e-newsletter
described as “a reminder of misallocated generosity”
under the headline,
“Details Reader’s Digest Won’t Print”
the candy was the story
because if the candy wasn’t the story,
then all those bruises
were for nothing.
and the story on her end?
souvenir t shirt scraps
lay on her lap
unquilted
like a flattened cat.
she can sit the kitchen
of an evening,
watch gas
flares at the refinery
light the sky. useless
to them but like
what's coming up next on the HDTV
her attention remained rapt
he displays mosaics for sale
from here right now,
but you’ll have to forget.
And you can’t remember
where we’re going.
Deal?
The townspeople whispered
abortion when the child grew
into what the e-newsletter
described as “a reminder of misallocated generosity”
under the headline,
“Details Reader’s Digest Won’t Print”
the candy was the story
because if the candy wasn’t the story,
then all those bruises
were for nothing.
and the story on her end?
souvenir t shirt scraps
lay on her lap
unquilted
like a flattened cat.
she can sit the kitchen
of an evening,
watch gas
flares at the refinery
light the sky. useless
to them but like
what's coming up next on the HDTV
her attention remained rapt
he displays mosaics for sale
outside the town wall.
bottle cap plastic
spoon pieces, sharp
and sun bleached, broken,
glaucomic,
Happy Meal shards
fixed to plywood in regimented
blocks of color
bottle cap plastic
spoon pieces, sharp
and sun bleached, broken,
glaucomic,
Happy Meal shards
fixed to plywood in regimented
blocks of color
vice principals stop on their way back in--
administrative assistants, team-members,
sales associates, band boosters--
to visit his makeshift booth.
apologizing in their way by purchasing
one of the 5 dollar works
he kept in plentiful stock.
camouflaged of desperation
but crackling with urgency,
citing rights,
they each demanded to know,
sotto voce,
do your fantastic stories work?
Yes, the narrator sighs.
yes. but
grab a lollipop on your way in.
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