ut your fist in your eye. Measure the gradient of the sleep there, in the crook of his arm. It's too archeological, that mood. The methods of getting attention could also kill you, turn you to some sort of precious museum stone. Someone was actually hitchhiking and you're sure she had a knife. You filleted the dream by arranging some fish bones on a picnic table in the park. The water there is artificial. People only pretend to gather the wind and stars in their sleeves. The pretty trash people leave. Spit and glue. Plant and breath.
You don't have to care about the names of gods. His spine feels like a horse. You have to cross his t's for him. Chance merely reflects like that, perfectly.
They have mirror chairs from China, he says. The guard screamed when she tried to sit on one. It was a thousand years of wishing.
Traffic crosses the river evenings and the factory over there seems bathed in a nuclear glow toward sunset. You found a pigtail inside a little cedar box in one of those tiny shops. You would have paid ten times the price asked. Calculating how much weight the invalid can hold. The lamp in that window is on all night the past five years. Some yellow construction sites flash out-of-sync down that street. Pao Chao's touch goes through your fingertips resting on the table you don't feel. You disassemble a metallic insect (long dead) you found on the windowsill, crumble its glittering fragments into the drawing. Someone is riding the wrong horse across an infinite snowy terrain. Your house is transparent fuel.
W.B. Keckler's most recent book is Sanskrit of the Body, which was
just published by Penguin. Some of his prose poems currently appear at the Alterran Poetry
Assemblage online. Work is also forthcoming in a number of online and print media journals
including The Hat, Ur*Vox, Detroit Dispatch, and Ambit.
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story copyright by author 2004 all rights reserved