Their bodies are strangely configured, these beings
impaled by two rackets which seem to suggest they
would like to be thought of as two tennis players.
They cannot be said to be carrying them, except
as a body may “carry” a spear piercing layers of it
in the side, somehow not falling down in the throes
of demise one expects at the end for a creature who
dies, or sensibly ought to be dying. Surrounded by
bubbles and vertical strands, they seem to lack
hands, though they stand on assortments of feet.
My markers and pens commandeer every day what
comes out on each new page of paper. I probably
sound like I’m lying, or that my already small mind
has turned into a vapor when all I can think to report
about how I come up with them is that I sit down
and draw. I’m bored with repeating I do not intend
what I can’t not agree nonetheless that I do. (This
riposte long ago became coy and too-too.) But do you?
Know why you do what you do? How do you fathom
what “real” is? I’d love to have spread down in red
on a scroll rolled out boldly in front of the eyes
in my head simple words that reveal what the deal is.
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