if i find a
kangaroo
on a ragged cliff
somewhere, crying
and somnolent and
gnashing its teeth, i will
sell it a
pack of
cigarettes, unbreathable and tasty,
like anchovies
packed in oil.
i won’t forget
that feet swimming
through dark faucets
are simply night
blaming adulthood for
cracking puberty
like crab legs. and in the
morning,
the dull cadence a billabong
beats
like
a clock, fries
like a rasher of indecision;
ovulates like a
monotreme. and though buoyancy
renders you
unable to walk, gravity will
sever your arms at
the shoulder
and flying
becomes impossible.
i remember that superstition
is a child never
fed.
that the soil
of daydreams is buttressed with earth-
worms and singing
wombats,
pliant like
buttons but
irreversible
as spells.
and in the
nearness, a line of houses stitched together by lawns and
repetition
is a scar on a
purulent cadaver
i’ll never mourn.
it was too bright on the
steppes; there was an unlaunched sun.
small beetles ran
stupidly into every
shadow
that got in their way
and
lost themselves, drowning in
an ocean.
graves undug and spindly
like match sticks, unruddered,
were simply a litter of newborns
that spread like
an oil slick.
this is alopecia: a dead lake
pulls the valley with it as it
evaporates, and locks
that could make water disappear,
race around
like magicians laughing, twirling
moustaches.
i meant to tell her
that trolleys still
ran in the street, even though
tracks had been
buried by steaming asphalt
years ago.
i meant to tell her
that sidewalks are
never
too
hot to
walk barefoot, and gyrfalcons
live
in the tundra on
ice cover as
scattered as grapeshot.
but, steppes have nothing to do with
temperature and neither does she.
i forgot
days that
crept into attic cupboards;
a carpet
of wheat burned beyond watering. but
remembered
an ohio bluetip match
that fired like a paralyzed nephew
of the sun.
.
whatever layer of
atmosphere you
choose to inhabit
doesn’t
matter when
gravity is
sprinkled from a
thimble
and
the land
it falls
on is littered
with sap and ancient blood
percolating into
bedrock.
water has nothing to do
but
fake
buoyancy and
support crabs or
wipe
its feet
on the shore. and
my lungs have
splintered
like
wooden crates
lowered
to squid depths;
my hair has
ignited, reaching
sky baked in rain.
forget
the sun and
icarus: he begged
like a fool.
he imitated pain.
now,
in one cloud,
water is drawn out of extinction.
you can visit a
pocket
if your bite goes
that far or
your head
returns like a
pinwheel: like
a
whirligig paints
a wave before
dying at night
and
calling
itself
a breeze. i feel
the shivering far away that
curves the air:
almost like
heat waves;
almost an
unbonneted holiday.
and i can scream
bones trephined
as clay. i can
sell mad surgeries to locusts who have nowhere to rest.
if i’m lucky,
a week from
tomorrow i’ll just be
getting
up.
sanguine and un-
skirted as fragile
glass and riptides
bouncing
delicately,
is the coal of
fascination
in bed-blue water,
drowning me too
quickly.
i’ve spread
marjoram
and
old lilies
on my arms.
swordfish
have marathoned
like
whales. there
isn’t any-
where
holy for
war-grade
gas and i’ve
placed
a large
egg in the nest of
a
tanager,
like a cowbird;
like a
bottlebrush
coaxing thin eyelashes
to
fly.
when you’ve asked
me
about
lemurs
i’ve paddled
the antarctic: penguins
have fur and large
eyes. they
live in trees,
hunt insects at night.
it isn’t that cold
but, lemurs
never
follow.
now
it rains over the
last breath of tierra del
fuego
and i
can’t count marmosets; can’t
smile
like a summertime
swing
in the park. if it
wasn’t for
all the sundresses
gathered like
cabbage; stapled
in geriatric ash,
the colour of
my heart
would take you
home. the silence
of any creature
would be enough.
my answer
i’ve
been asked my impressions of teaching science
in
a community college for over thirty years,
and
my answer was ………………………there isn’t much hope for the human race.
or
my observations of driving through a mall parking lot,
or
listening to the drivel coming out of republican mouths,
or
of the bumper sticker fare on cable tv,
or
the talking and talking of individuals fully embalmed,
or
the strengthening of thumbs and deterioration of minds,
or
the wyatt earps who actually believe the garbage coming out of republican
mouths,
or
the nuts who subsidize the salaries of professional prostitutes,
or
the bang, bang, bang that never is the sound from a toy gun,
or
the small girl who hasn’t known warmth of any kind, picking at the floor
with
small bubbles popping on her lips….……………..and my answer is the same.
Livio Farallo is co-editor of Slipstream and Professor of Biology
at Niagara County Community College. His work has appeared
or, is forthcoming, in Bindweed, Brief Wilderness, Home Planet News, Rise Up,
Beatnik Cowboy, Ginosko, and others.
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