i wrap myself in a see-thru shower curtain & pretend i’m a particle of dust out for a night on the town, i count sideways from fifty only to spot my sister disguised as a bucket of neon chicken on a billboard in quebec under a sky
made entirely of tile, the twilight folding into itself like something glaucous bubbling inside of a child’s Easy-Bake Oven & when that little door opens all hell breaks loose. ceramicists spread out over the countryside searching
for the saddle to jupiter’s red spot w/fractal calipers & a pair of fuzzy dice, i approach counting like i approach a razor-sharp dog: i pluck a rodeo clown out of my backpack & keep on strolling as if nothing was wrong, sparkling,
like spoons in the hands of castrati striking a storm door made of structural steel. whirling away in a water closet at antietam’s post office is a perpetual motion machine that sounds like the cheap seats at old shibe park bursting
w/cockatoos who repeatedly cry “it’s a fix!”—relax—go for a walk around the clay beds gazing into the décolletage of a complete solar eclipse, testify here in the eventide that every angle in your body’s howling to be released.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
