.
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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