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August 18, 2006
7
We go to the mountains and camp with the fire and lakes, the smell of mint and a chimney. It wasn’t you on the corner in White Avenue honestly I imagined it would spin me out of the picture. Out of the picture, next to the store with Bob, Kate and Lou, staring at all those other shells, rolling down the slide, speaking your team’s language, from nowhere to out there.
Taken in by the wind-works I watch the squirrels gather in the gallery sorting thru water throws some childhood game backwards. Once in the story when they snap off another click I rage to believe downstairs a really good cup of coffee across the tray awaiting for social investment. With the grass, the milk, the devoted family by the runway, a frame of the view someone else covers. Lookout your six when you curl up.
The shattering clouds cut the morning sun off then the line of purples after the storm glancing on the tiles, two wooden poles hold the frame and from their wet narrow track the billboard girls deflect in the other window, brushing where everything is lips closing in a chime of plums, oxygen, gold and regret. Pink as birthday balloons, light the rainbow emerges from the dull lake to the east, the running water, the billboard girls speak.
Humming in the air that masks us clear by the hundreds trafficking droplets of blood warming my hands then up on the beach for a minute. A thousand leaves chained to the air conditioner burst with a puff and roll in the snow speeding away. A thousand leaves for me to give the little laughing, drop the little chainsaw and fall asleep on the pillow.
I live in the land where the waterfall flows thru a pool and thru the ocean the sparrows revolve, the scale grows, a bump or a trail of miniatures, maps and insects crowding to meet me on this street. After and before every morning she gets on the phone and the couch, the wedding gift, a critical stance. I hold in until I begin typing when I step across the sleep I stretch at a fraction of a breath. This is part of what I like.
Two people in the room blinking, falling into place, painting. A backbone kicking and kicking to start the plot in every recess first in the needle. Everyone will work it out right about now.
I am dating no dramatic layouts but a collective fortune. In the face of deliberately misconstruing the wounding as a kind of case, disseminated, faked by frustration, the light indicates no coincidence. Boxes thru boxes, thru 27 miles of shrubby cactus then the 56-foot tall iron gate. You have arrived.
© Fortunato Caragliano. All rights reserved.
Posted by lck at August 18, 2006 06:23 PM
