vodka
with eggnog, gin and juice, nutmeg
on
time, destroyed by grace, listening
closely—the
face of celebrity, the sun
burning,
her mind swooping, swooshing
into
kingdoms. aside the fig tree, a pile of
ants,
laid in coffins, spaced in trouble
—the
noon expresso, the inner cook, so
much
in the artists, maybe deliberate, so
antichrist,
many anarchists, to be offered
the
award. back to sidewalks, once famous
the
profundity becomes the mundanity.
in
her condominium, eating success
what’s
left to unhinge; remembering the
backstroke,
the strobe lights, polls, stages
so
clean, addressed with incaution
pigeonholed;
no more a person, no more
the
dream, the success is the decoration.
tongues
cover globes, words hit like
harpoons,
the garage holds pet-bulls; so
much
unwrapping, so many trees, the pun
intended—many
more garments, brand
name
anything—a sad smile, a gifted angst,
much
fierce fire. pain is like oxygen, with
anger
becoming ice, many more are
frozen.
(the look in her face is glacier,
prima
facie,
it becomes the powerhouse.)
