Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Radio Hawaii

There's a man writing poetry
in the next cubicle. Beside the treadmill,
a quart of Pisco and a single fried chicken
are being chronicled. This
speaks the day's sentence and subsequently
thinks of refinement, like
a chalk cliff to a meteor storm
of surf-bubbles. Relay that
from my spoon! Hisssssss!....Radio
Hawaii - the sizzle of sleep - I'm trying
hard to concentrate
on the pressure
and release
of the increasingly
viscous keys
cantilevered on his typewriter. (Express
regret) - "hold me where it makes me"
and I say
"feels better" - Wait!
till he gets me
out of his hair. He big man breathe
down my collar. He lunch my nape
He grabs the eraser
and strikes it, like a scaly finger
STRIKE! from the
man writing poetry,
slapping the gob-yellow dunes by the bluest
of seas - the burning tanker - the weasel easily
scrambling up a mountain of corn.

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