Thursday, May 20, 2010

Boots Standing In Nothing

He used to be friendly to fish, walked around
with a cheekful of them, never swallowed, no sir – just
promenaded around supermarkets and
other hostile places with them in his mouth, a fan of
What Does Not Exist captured on the large Polaroid,
captured like a cave with a tail grabbed
by the tail – dragged into their
sweet midst because you know,

they had roots here, and they were friendly
to him right here, and didn’t judge what
he chose to let flop around and stink (internally, against them)
in his mouth, did they??? Showed him the ropes, oh
the ropes of his choice they were
not picky, showed him why he liked his life
before and why he didn’t like it now: was it because
everyone could smell his fish?
So why so ashamed of them now? Lips
sealed, seal your roots in polythene wrap
then squeeze them into rubber boots; now wade
into my Polaroid

leaning up against a tree large as life, on that field trip
caught and pinned down, thrust
a pill size of the tailed cave’s
living nothing into his beating heart.
They laughed but stood back unsure, ‘now you
have dominance over what you remember
now what???’ Unveiled, a face ripped off, replaced
with manure but though crude, it’s actually a fancy
revolving door letting out
and keeping in the oddities, tail thrashing,
the colorless fear-ribbon twirling in the underbrush, 
your soul a nursing home feeding like
Alien on your best field trip memory
but it was shit anyway but you had
fun anyway if only you had clean clothes.

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