ISSUE 24: WINTER 2014

Escaping the Landscape

  How many landscapes till they melt into the canvas? The central idea is the location for the patterns. Don’t smoke them out—they’ll tell you when they’re ready for discovery. I have no question that popular voices in accounting number in the days, each digit digs into eyes. Teeth bared make me an offer of refusal. A continual hope to be read. I wish I cared, but the odds are it will sweep the table clear. Under clothes, torn up and breeding teeth and air. Over doodles that are deemed high dudgeon for complaint, the dainties. Modern Victorians, itchy noses as usual. I drink big drinks. I’m thirsty. Hold onto your horsewhips! One-level living in a small town— everything hates stairs. Feet do, sliding sideways. I’d like to join the gravel crew, dig low rumbling earthmovers, our assemblies of glittering resentments. Endless meat for tearing with hands and teeth, if feet aren’t available in that way. I can’t be stood up if I can’t stand up. Yo-yo describes you, a wide arc of changeable smiles and disintegration. I put myself in the hands of face, or fate, if you prefer the elements of words to words themselves. Who cares? Good question. Thanks. It’s funny, the plugs are everywhere, but mainly up high. Ghosted by uniforms.