Our garbage truck is a Ford with boarded-up sides.
Water in the stream, still now, milky like a
cataract. Birds pop around us, cute poofs of sophistry
and orgasm. We fell down today walking to our car.

Until late yesterday, unrelated strands like the snow
walked sullenly and with airless grace through cars
parked along the pile-up, chunks billowing like a
toughened floral cape that fell from the sky burning
up, down homogenized eyes staring back at the word for
eyes staring up. We felt down in a drift of fitted
void, oval with lathering fear in directions of
accumulations nearly perfect in blankness; a software
of war coming, mingled on nimble businesses that rape
brown skin for black gold, still running at the corner
of our vision down our legs to coil, hugging purple
stars. Birds palpitate cuteness, hallucinating, as if
powder's endurance could be anything more than our
faces smashed backwards in spoons.

Take something. Our tongue rolling out to poke an
erection back into cavities; fit for ovoid snow.

We watch months of trees shimmying from floral
growth. It had bad teeth, and all its bones were loose
in its skin. Our garbage truck can barely make it over
the ice on the streets. In the background, oily sirens
are proud of dusk, excited by her blood.

2003/02/19 08:03:59



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ARCADIA: long poem serialized in the muse apprentice guild: http://www.muse-apprentice-guild.com/
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/385/lewis_lacook.html


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