26 April 2005

Bread Rising on the Doric Eyes

mother don't worry, she's got a garden we're planting together
mother remember the night that the dog had her pups in the pantry?
blood on the floor & the fleas on their paws
and you cried 'til the morning

She had on heels that clicked with the timing of tides on the slick surface temperate medium of salt seas craning endlessly back from black shores and black eyes and dark circling aches that only just resembled the tip of a yearn. Just a J_____-shaped hole in the universe sucking down the space between swiftly tilting planets 'til they're sweetly drifting backwards from the hopscotch arena. This life in a supermarket has made me all too valuewise with hot lunch programs for the mothers with rich husbands whose answering machines wrack there nerves. As I pass the bell peppers ringing in their ting-a-linging and gongs of seasoned seeds in womb, I have the neuvo-realisation that coffee is like caffeinated dilapidation.
Pastel in pasttense can't altogether devour the Baltimore rain squelching over bandwidths of chattering ticker-tap keyboards releasing the clattered cacophonia that wants to rush at the edge of the ocean with vengeance. A short sail up into the cracking whitehead wash staggers it all back like a folded blanket of ragtop, second rate camaros. Pops and gross blanks of personality let the spinning wheels spike up the gravel, a slattered spray of who's who raining on the first place triumphant's parade. He liked checkers, jumping the gates and lines and q's, p's, mostly just the z's. A primary candidate to play with primary colors.
She wore a slip of a sarong that gusted sheer in the quieter light, a flare of a muscle shining in tense pointed measure. An M_____-shaped hole in the universe swallowing out the river hum that tended to sac the rising terror that alighted on my heart with a clod and thump thump, like a carrion crow dropping back in a hop, rending the space she once occupied. She held the grief just back from her brow, pinned over the soft curl of her lobes. Like majong tiles I could never place the right people properly, too many languages misshaped on their minds, too many orders fuming, sucking in some temporal vacuum, of how here and there meet up when and then. A great story dropping out from her funny turned lips, sheeting on the driveway as the water crackles in the summer stones.

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