the anthology is filled with tragic
stories—the kilowatts are flickering, the children are unsocial; the flame is
the interior, ten dreams a shadow, a daughter was aborted; politics seem so
distant, grappling with images, the war is the vote. so fidgety, playing mind
tunes, enabled to calculate. to hear an innuendo, to ask a question, piano
trickles down to paranoia. i seldom speak directly. the catalyst was the last
voice. we speak to it using metaphors. a man might get bold, and lose his
anchor. the abysmal climax, the peak of the skies, a person proud to have
lived; despite the chains, the cuffs, the inevitable. he pricked his fingers,
stamped his papers, they grew into spirits; never knowing the depth, the cultic
existence, and what it generates. as if horseback—the galloping spirit, to come
to age in sins; inside the brains, woodworked and chiseled, the ride so rough
inside; upon a wildrose, a trillion ladybugs, the caskets afloat—so much
pottery, a wheel, a woman and a ghost there—most dying, cleansing the filthy
rags, like we see in Isaiah—plotting on self, needing good health, looking into
the mind’s audience; a feel on its shelf, the mantle squeaking, the topaz
obituary. hearing it ring, catching an emotion, eyes watering in the smaze.
