Traffic Hissing by the Pine over Farnsworth Wright’s Grave
The road noise nigh Farnsworth Wright’s
grave
Is very crepuscular, the foibles of
Stratocaster corpse fanes smoked through to the vault. The Carthaginian
contours of his coffin were remonstrative. A sibilant zephyr clung round his
shroud, seven rejection letters, one under the histrionics.
Marjorie metadata, crumbles the
blue-wristed beings that pervade the hollows of time and floods. What ichor
hath kumquat wrote? Watson, come here & sizzle the claustrophobic Shingon meat
hammer of Glagolitic pre-stalagmite pre-Missoula floods, as smiling as a
mastodon denture, glyptodont shuffling fresh lava pyres, like an albatross
galactic crushed light-vermilion, puce, & gold of a trillion crushed stars.
Sphinxes & sepulchers nourish the
tree, aurochs & squid.
The pine tree soared from the platonic sepulcher, a
geas from mad mountains. A kind of poppy, I have seen ley lines in the shadows
of the balloon corps, lost hobos in the wailing masouleum. Decades have
thundered by you, ecstatic loneliness.
Editing like a planchette, over the hill the pate
cremains.
by Jonathan
Falk
Finished
8-23-18
