Friday, January 13, 2012


Cross a bridge
to the pants dance
Strike that, reverse it
So much wait time
even less time, still waiting
still ringing (and ringing)
at the tone
at the tone
it's at the tone

Cut along dotty spotty memory
red face flushed, contorted
that yam sweater spotlit
hiding in plain sight
amid the manic flutter
Follow the powdery trail (it always knows!)
The British are coming!
and coming! and coming!

Crouch down in the bushes
The sticker bushes!
Tiny needle-sharp thorns
making exclamation marks
on the skin of your shins
Poink! Poke! Prick!

Count to twenty-nine
where your needle is holding
just above the record's
surface dotted with wooly lint
A tiny distant relative
coughing in the night
out the night, coughing
dead skin and fibers

Cross back to a shot of the kid
BMX bike in midair
backdrop a hillside
his black tuffs the envy of all
his green-eyed companions
Moto-X Fox shirt torn
like a battle-worn flag
flapping gulps of Delta gust

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