I like to be alone in someone else’s house, practicing my cosmic long distance wink. I send it out toward a mirror some distracted bored cosmonaut dropped on an asteroid hurtling vastly closer to our star. No one watches me watching thousands of television hours, knitting a golden bobcat out of tiny golden threadlets. These good lonely days every thing I’ve claimed I’ve seen for me to use it glows. I’m waiting for the love of Alice Ghostley, who keeps in various faces and guises appearing amid the plot machines, always to someone more beautiful and central in complex futile relation. They call her plain but to me her name sounds full of distant messages beamed a thousand years ago, only now to flower. Penultimate cigarette, high desert breezes, I’ve written all my plans and vows on careful scraps of paper piled beneath weirdly heavy little black rocks I gathered on many slow walks into town to ask no one who would bother naming this particular time between later afternoon and twilight. Crazed bee, I know the name of the plant you are in! Salvia! Also, the jay is not blue, nor the sky or indigo bunting, within particles and feathers sun gets lost making expert holographers out of us all. Passarina, I saw your dull blaze from the railing flash and an insect disappeared. Afternoon once again slipped into the gas station like it did those old days it had a body that moved and smoked among the people, whistling a cowboy song concerning long shadows, happy and unfree. Copyright © 2015 by Matthew Zapruder. Used with permission of the author. |
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