--- D A V I D K O P P I S C H
The perpetrator licked his fingers. The weatherman staving off winter with humorous hand gestures. The hologram of sex in the back seat of your parents' car. The geopolitical compromise lost its costume and quickly disbursed sedatives though less effective now that gas prices were dropping in the sad pages of your evening illness. The perpetual gloating of the spokespersons, though drunk, trying to sing like lemons. Your brave orifice, though contractual, arrives like flavored lawyers. Jellied and enormous bottles of curvature, she said, stoking the tension of the moment, hitchhiking along the jaundiced highway. Can you break a twenty? Contrived, yes, though not quite ready for prime time. Giant sized and singing like lemons. Does this constitute a fat wallet or a foreclosure or a needle to prick your annual report? The people remove their clothes. Which of these stock options are crazed, purple, automatic? The distance is unthinkable but the coffee tastes like clouds. The highway is prickly but the candy smells like the moon. Show me a sentence without a trap door and I'll show you a house without windows. Too many problematic glimpses on the blue train tonight. I feel it's too late to raise certain questions with relatives. Underneath the city some of the people wearing tight pants. The stores were closed without reason. In the darkness the women selling flowers and vulturous eyes of the men on the sidewalk trying to include me in their violence. The sun set on the broccoli and the Cambodian fingers that stood in the cold ask if you'd like to know the reason for the night as it tip-toed like spray paint on some bushes or the outline of a body in the street. Yeah, wouldn't it be nice if the high-heeled downtown distraction could furiously sprout justice? But the disease, the disease is only around the corner, or over the hill if you prefer or just beyond the crater if that's your thing. The disease will not stop for red lights. Men bark at street corners. These sideburns, all this talk of shoes and getting drunk. Your free-market solutions leave me limp while those parallelograms of dawn slide across my kitchen wall toward green happiness on the windowsill. You dress to impress those who have power over you. The tired heavy books. Electric sizzle of the morning and you too are heavy like the tired plants by the door or the skinny legs at the corner but those pictographs of the morning incise the kitchen wall, saying: the glimpse of control a whiff of lips a deep throated howl: saying, if you could remember the moon was an onion and the sun was a grapefruit stinging the eyes of the faithful, the coffee in the village was sweet and we were cold and giddy among the massive Catholic stones and lesbian smiles like flames in the snow, singing like lemons.
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published in association with the |
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