Wednesday, November 16, 2005

septemberlips


digit-fisted fire, enlisting in itself the wiry growl of some stapled shut minotaur baby crying its little throat to sleep. burn, there goes the ether. flame-throws famous monuments into kings that dine on cable television. smoking seven, severing radios and kindling like coffee or lies in dust.

"is there a tree going on?"

emberlips, embereyes, embernose, emberears, septemberlips, septembereyes, septembernose, septemberears all lost in an islander's salt-rimmed baseball cap that laughs at the birdshit that it keeps from its owner. all crooked features, so he escapes the movie theatre. with the pavements' offerings of squid he writes,

"dear dead paper trails, vacation mail floods, thank you for the gifts of fine graphic failures and film scores. my best friend tripped on the curb, lost his limb and brewed some beer. and what do you mean by 'wife'?"

that wasnt a battleship across the street, just a mailbox hiding from the fire. its flag went down the day his dog's brewery went bunny rabbit hopscotch rabid like his styrofoam teeth and erratic-lusting, shelving-horses, attic-dusting, etc.