The day the sun fell down boom on the sidewalk
writhing. It looked just like a baby, a bright baby
who knew how to talk and how to sit up and how to tie
her shoes. No-one picks up the sun, or holds it,
because it's just too hot. That heat will eat us, we
say. That heat will burn us away.
The day the sun fell down boom on the sidewalk,
writing started to look like a thicket from which we'd
never emerge. Sure, I woke up as usual, examined the
illicit downloads, made coffee, but only because I
know how much you like detail. In the mouths of all
the neighborhood ravens USB cables slick like early
morning erections pressured the government into
colonizing a people far away. The coffee was good
though, as I'd practiced it sadly to tailor our
tastes.
That day we filled our car with blood. It ran well.
We drove it. The sun fell down and it was a child who
had no shoes. She was crippled.
At the mall my people shuffled through aisles of
bright goods. All the light had flattened and gone
cold, and I thought maybe all these fabulous goods
weren't so fabulous; I thought maybe they were flat
and cold. It was warmer that day than it's ever been.
All my people were sweating, and the sweat ate some of
them away.

2003/03/02 11:53:27


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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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