Wan ode among muttering teakettle rain clowns, INFP-T
I’m in a unique
position to not
know talcum from
alchemy—do you
see what I see?
crank up the
see n’ say: summon
the clown car colored kentucky
american water pump that’s technically
owned and maintained by a deutsche
geshaeft red white blue rustic titian
suspended in what was an ousted chess piece,
struck from the record, now nobody living
nor dead recalling the arc of its gait, what
plane it maintained or was chained to—a
small black slit, like a domino mask that a
pinprick cracked or crumbled in half, read
always and evermore, OPEN, a crude steel
tassel tacked to its fez-red pinhead, cribbing
an image of isis, face fixed under a fish bowl,
pulling a whale by the tail from a column of
fire, the closest bird to a seraph beside her,
presenting a clipped or hare-lipped wing—
and a thousand more floundering animals
drawn in the thrawn and muttering rust run
over its lean and steel-stiff, lily-white cheeks,
all their pockmarked smiles mere mockery
maybe of what was its use once, here but a
portal of ore abandoned, again, recalling its
childhood
pinned in the spleen of a
mountain, sunning its smoldering-
fragrant, pine-
stumped
chin.
