Dear Polymath,

how many tires come with this car? Not everything that happens is a tractor or a poem.For instance, I can’t make a horse a verb, not here, and the thing in my sink stayed dirty for ten days. It was my uncle’s in the war. Old as Zoroastrianism. Old as the contest between tractor and poem. Wait. It didn’t happen that way. First I ate a meal on the plate. Then I said to Calvin, Calvin, I love the way your earlobe pulsates when my nose gets near. The plate couldn’t know what we know, couldn’t imagine the sameness of such seeming disparity. One wonders about plates. Also the color green. Green, which hates to be left behind in the tunnel. I left green behind in the tunnel once, and I’m regarded as a reckless parent even though I’m more of a fixer of broken gadgets. The little ball in the pinball machine got stuck, so I took off an arm and glided its knuckle down the tracks. She sauntered downhill like a flipper through the bay. Now she is happy in her pinball pen, though she has a real face-touching problem no one wants to rarefy for her. Above all, folks are strange, toggled and mostly soundless. I like gangly, byzantine cowboys for obvious reasons.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

S p r i n g G u n P r e s s 2009

editor@springgunpress.com

 

 

 


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