Skip to main content

Escutcheons With Blots On Them

 Slick reference point in the greasy diner. Plot twists and argyle socks, unforgivable meaning in the drab part of town. Moxie must be reserved for those dangerous moments. Wisecracks make grease fires. Something called certainty gets taken back. Mysterious people with information float past with sights for sore eyes and internal questions. How many of the sawbucks in that bundle can relieve doubt? A bottle of cheap whisky on the desk proffered with a nod. Cigarettes as instruments. Everyone is malarkey’s best pal. A quick sock to the mush fulfills Diogenes’ intent. We have prose now that is the dead person’s present. No one slips from suddenly. Meanwhile, a shot in the dark: obsequious Justice worth a few smackers. Another ounce of brown liquid, a puff of wreaking smoke to the lungs, tip back the Stetson and feet on the desk: it’s a job.


Comments

Bob BrueckL said…
Especially nice, even stunning at times, in parts, certain sentences --
a certain Comedy I can't pin down, or explain, or understand where it comes from.

Thank you. Bob Brue
March 22, 2023 at 11:36 AM
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Words

  From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
2 comments
Read more

A Child’s Proletariat Garden

  The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
1 comment
Read more

A Screed Left Town

  Inside the excuse for nation: leafy tractors (any bonding to the brownness of earth will do). A day’s march from the next day’s march, the love amongst us on a map. The map shows citadel, city in a dell, and abounding fields. The trees have effort to contend with. Bears chuff to excess in a workfarm spring. Something tall rises on the plain. Mills confirm the need for rivers. Troops stop where the food is. Terror provides the function for non-terror, in zones described as war-like. Pictures become words for people sighing. One sees a lack of food, or especial jewels, or the need for frocks made from bison. Another tower seems important for a nation’s existence, one taller than might. It will seem like tradition. You and I are left to explain.
Post a Comment
Read more