Drunken Boat #18

Press Release

Danger lurks in the soft thudding of chipmunk against tire, a chipmunk

I never saw coming but pay for, nonetheless. Floaters slip in the viscous

and there is no swatting them away like the new house, looking

like it was delivered to the wrong address distorts the landscape.

like the intruder that floats in my right eye freely redacts imagery. Looking

for answers on ophthalmology sites, unbidden FAQS

pulse to the side of the screen.                   What is

 

Justin Bieber’s Cell Number 2011? What is

 

the Role of Youth in realizing the Dream

 

of Dr. Kalam? What is WWWSEX? What is

 

ZENDAYA COLEMAN NATIONALITY? What is

 

FICA TIER 1? What is Justin

 

                           Bieber’s cell number, FOR REAL?    

 

Trending outward, bound for knocking at repairs and service,

and with all of the aboves unknown, I check each exit

for evidence before opening the door.

 

only the tightening of my jaw in resolve against parts

wearing thin, juxtaposed to the slow exhale of understanding.

 

 

 

Tidbits from Bleak House I couldn’t keep to my self.

The man writes like the Dickens.

Each action permeates character and scene leaving the reader full but not overstuffed and burping adjectives. Dickens has the right words and the genius to play them in the right order, one of the Sisyphean tasks for writers.

“He retired into the sanctuary of his blue coat.”

“Such a fine woman as her, so handsome and so elegant, is like a fresh lemon on a dinner table, ornamental wherever she goes.”

“… down the hall, a few steps ahead of Mercury.”

“He came back like a recollection.”

“The ghosts of trees and houses, clothes lines…”

He’s back for DNA testing

A Monarchist Declines the King

Oh my lord, that spine. The S shape is my imprimatur,

just S. But you, after six hundred years, you are Mantel-

ready. Ready to replace Wolf Hall’s Cromwell as her

latest he. And who knows, her revisionist history might

then bury you in Westminster, in a stone-riven crypt

from Sussex at Horsham! A worshipper of royals, I

pressed esses into sealing wax and imagined the princess

sisters bowed over polished escritoires. With a head full

of pudding and suspicious of my birth year by centuries,

you and I have settled down, like the dig at Greyfriars church.

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