Monday, June 18, 2012


The eye glued itself to a spoon. It felt as closed
as an anvil, yet when lightening struck the eye
its entrails were protected by Faraday's effect.
The spoon kicking up reflections; the brain rudely
photo bombing each of these reflections.
The brain in these violent, intrusive instances looked
like a car wash sponge in which a small tree was planted.
In the tree in the sponge a fish hook was hooked,
in the bark, ingrown, its entry point surrounded by gnarl.
The tree was meant to be pulled up out of the sponge
by this hook. A sacrifice.

The night sky outside the window behind the sponge
was silver. The stars weren't stars. Arguably the
solar system's twinkly braces marked a new stage in its
ongoing identity crisis. In another sense, it was
trying to disguise its hatred. Which was uncalled-for.
It need only have kicked us in our beds. An interstellar
tendon could've merely swiped across the sky like
a watermelon's peel. Changing the particles we slept on.
Debris suddenly rectifying themselves. Roadkill stirring
on a fluctuating crosswalk. Becoming something new
after spiraling. Multiple jujitsu.

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