Screen Dump 621
We are all suspect
riding victorious in white chariots drawn by white horses
parading through the streets
earwormed with the caveat
All glory is fleeting . . .
prompting you to reconsider life's Rolodex
with the Titanic's burial soundtracked
not by Nearer My God To Thee as tabloided
but by Archibald Joyce's Songe d'Automne . . .
Oh, to be in England now that April's there, yes? . . .
Here's to April's blizzard
as the tray feeders become high-trafficked areas . . .
George C. Scott's Patton, It was here;
the battlefield was here . . .
A grackle flexes its wings . . . impressing no one . . .
bill tilts abound
all shapes and sizes and ages scatter
with the arrival of a needle-beaked red-bellied woodpecker
while inside the cat chows down on a dictionary
dribbling words from his chops . . .
The meaning of this and that has left the building
on African war pachyderms
crossing the Alps to Hannibalize Rome . . .
A takeaway box and a paradigm shift
and the boiler's red eye reset button eyes you
as if through a glass and darkly
in the darkness of the basement . . .
The voices in the walls guest the power outage
with live links for the woebegotten
waving both hands in the air using a twisting movement . . .
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| Leila Fores |