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The Filmstrip Marathon Conspiracy Trials

The Film­strip Marathon Con­spir­acy Trials

Your first night alone overseas—plagued with jet­lag and transparency;

a kill switch trans­ac­tion with the terse French teller, and flow­ery
com­men­tary by a mon­tage of seers; your vir­gin taste in rela­tions
uncon­di­tional
and affin­ity for exotic affairs that would fol­low;
the daily horo­scope which left you want­ing more—until Vogue
released His & Your Con­stel­la­tions; a wish inspired by a child
–hood rock col­lec­tion; first and fore­most to know thy jew­elry;
[memo: the first and last time you’ll swap num­bers at the bank]
the hijacked plan to see just the pyra­mids, the Lou­vre, the sun,
and the moon, before crash­ing in the evening and dream­ing
of you;
the entourage of actors who will suf­fer & wan­der through
the City and the Yel­low pages, search­ing for an agent; your last
name nailed to the wall of a museum; an amphibi­ous exis­tence
that sup­ports itself accord­ingly: sus­pended, with class, between
era­sure & a hard place; those relays which con­sist of more batons
than con­tes­tants; my body blown from vil­lage to vil­lage; when
a spirit gets can­did and slowly turns its gaze: from the prince—
to the mirror—fixing on the future; the frog col­lec­tion you once
kept with your brother; the first physics exper­i­ment to spawn
from a safari On the Shelf-life of Water­logged Flora, and indeed,
 “Noah’s fam­ily stayed on board, even after he ran // out of sub­jects.“
On your mark, help­less, the gun­shot, where, the quote, do I go;
the inter­ven­tion you insisted was unfair & pre­ma­ture; this post
card slip­ping, twice slurred, through your fingers—like a lily pad
lack­ing in motive & sender while a fig­ment as long as the Euphrates
evolves: inau­gural pro­ces­sion, new year, funeral, the some­thing
pur­ple that caused you to swoon: Mer­lot, Androm­eda, the Aster
scented tomb; a wed­ding party set­ting the cadence for the gar­den;
a trusty syringe; a bubble’s frag­ile orbit; gib­ber­ish fol­lowed by quiet

fol­lowed by: clos­ing now, who­ever you are—find what you look for.

2 Comments

  1. oldtranslations wrote:

    I am going to ded­i­cate this poem to myself. I hope you don’t mind.

    Thursday, March 4, 2010 at 9:40 am | Permalink
  2. amanda_wordspinning wrote:

    J,

    It’s all yours.

    Thursday, March 4, 2010 at 10:36 pm | Permalink

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