won’t hold all of the story
in the half sweep of a movie
see… the celluloid raconteur ends
the stage, the bones.
I sip my pre-dawn elixir and ponder explosions. In particular, the words of a white-coated witch. Her spell bubbles in a cauldron, and when it is done you will seal the deal with the silver blade of ice and place the tip on a burning lightbulb.
You face your face in a circular mirror. Rub at a dry patch of dead skin. It peels away to reveal a patch of powder blue.
Slow train a’coming. The men laying down the tracks, the iron engine with grinning cattle fender crossing the sand.
The working man’s gymnasium is a crowbar, a lump hammer. The work is heavy going because the blueprints are blurred and the brain is in at least six places at once.