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Bucket's Drunken Swing, Or 2011

water's draping itself down the front of a window pane in winter, sounds like a full bucket taking drunken swings at the glass, with its solid transparency, known to have an extremely low viscosity the surface for the liquid to embrace against like a parisian woman standing in the metro stall;

a man sleeping, smiling, doing the silent slow struggle of blanket and bed, stuck between him the sheets. he's smiling and crying in his sleep. the window shudders under the affection of the thunder and the frame rattling. Incessantly buzzing, the sound waves and wind blown ones of mist make the small bedroom vibrate like a rubber band orchestra, and the man stretches on break between the sandwich-like repose of the mattress, and slinks into a parabola in the twisted cloth.

From inside his room, the rubric for the year's travail hung up on the wall like a garage calendar, the man's greatest work of art, with plans in hand like a general with a notebook instead of riding crop, slack against the wood paneling, waiting to be brandished and flaunted, object of the obscure absurd, like a perfect sphere of glass. it was useless under the gaze from those who knew nothing of the evolution of scientific thought, the struggle from ridicule and incarceration to the authority for better living.

the mantra for eternity sticks to the cold, humid air. This is the age of the artist, who recognizes the continuity of futures' 2 tapestries, the optimist's and the pessimist's. we live in the friction between the two, pent up with the static energy of those under god's suspect. French horns and orchestral hits in the small bed chamber, a chorus weeps while the man falls out of bed and is reaching for some force above to hold him in, but the air above pushes and the spinning coal chamber beneath pulls down.

a real green thumb he, grew his own carpet, a mass of loam scattered from an earlier time yielded well in a soft topcoat of herbaceous rug. the aerators rejoiced and tickled the tips of the nostrils of their demagogue, who sneezed awake in notes of guitar wire squeezed through his sinuses.

he woke up again. what dreams he was entertaining were projected onto the walls of the room, and the choir sang three full steps down each staircase of the pitched roofs of the midwestern metropolitan area. when the bottom was reached, a christmas-time church hymn-like rag soaked in ether sat the man back down with it's extended arms and tilted head, eyes rolled forward.

He was asleep a boy and awake an average man living in the majority of the 21'st century. He was born in 1991, and thought about missing the turn of the century, but possibly finding the rose quartz mornings of his days the perfect osage orange, with stripped sides and creamy grain. he always was asking which way to pet it so he didn't get the splinters stuck in his fingers.

this year of the lord's 2011 pushed his hand one way up up up
and the september in autumn took the grained pores of his hands pads then down down down the broken branches in the hedges of a Normandy hedge palm frond, he bit down on filters and glass mouths to get the grit of it out.

when i go, i want to stay longer, when i arrive i'll arrive strongly,
put up the corners of my mouth like this bed in a crunched v, when i love i'll love better, when i hate i'll hate harder, when i fall i'll expect someone to catch me. so i wont fall yet, i'd ask you to repeat things i didn't catch but i'm afraid that what was said would be the same the second time.
Maxwell Ames
Saturday, December 31, 2011

Delivering Poems Around The World

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1/26/2021 4:51:19 PM #