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
I am going to dedicate this poem to myself. I hope you don’t mind.
J,
It’s all yours.
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