Tuesday, May 15, 2007

new poem

It's The Best One Yet


Kids in a fishbowl. Actually, through the glass. I lifted my hand to my mouth. That's where your magic happens. It used to be like breathing underwater. A muffled sound brings us to Dallas-Fort Worth where you wear a mask. And that's where John Lennon killed the Kennedys. Like a free-radical tracing your wet lips. Pfizer reps announce 8th wonder of the world. But my graduation is on a Saturday. No one would remember. She who must not be afraid to be named was amazing when she danced with me. And on ABC I watched my arms being given away for good people to do nothing with. They marched into the sea. On his plate of turkey. For tales of games. Of child-bearing furs. She put her in the Radio Flyer built from old chunks of Batmobile. It was so frigid, but there were so many questions. Some folks say it will end in a blaze of lakes. In a gut, a blanket forms. We'll name ourselves after fish. (Later, after they demonstrated, they did JELL-O shots in an aquarium.) My babysitter and I did the breast stroke. Pink ribbons dot the interstate. Raggedy Ann drops acid by the seashore. Our peers drip and mope. From my glasses I saw the hours. Oh the shattered. Kids are mirrors. Smokey, broken lowercase a's holler out "educaciĆ³n." Chase's .45 magnum was a smooth, polished piece with a long, silenced shaft. The whole thing means that I got a mine that's mine.

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