Past Vespers
A storm of split-second parables made its way to the cement. Just like us,
only eventually. Which way? She kept smiling at the storm, to the upset-
ness of her fellow riders. She drove like carnage along the widening road
with trucks and yellow signs about the narrowing. A one-hit wonder, she
sang the way special agents hoped. Who died? Was there an aperture in the
plot? How to measure reassurance coming from nowhere. The slot machine
of fracas stormed field not in evidence. Ramshackle breathing might have
united the tiny party. Whose windshield, whose pocks, whose evanescence
had lifted? Everything, a rock band for that figurative fifteen. Go ahead and
spread the breakage qua gossip termed news. A noose of that inviolable
cloaked noun dead to the world.
Apostolic Bust
Stop out-louding the room you are in. Whisper if you must, trust the implicit
tryst hinging you and the film woven across too dark darkness covering the
kitchen chairs, the cha, in proxy housecoat weather, lip-glossed across
plexiglass as if kissing the barrier between. Stop kismet-ing what you call
clean behind the aspic of auspices of a self-made bill of health you bother to
shelve in haste, lacking taste and temperance, those mighty gilded words
part of the way toward salvation, seeping into the message you are telling
your twelve selves gathered in the unliving room.
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