Thursday, February 3, 2011

poem || Jim Leftwich

discontinuous poem #27

once we get to the mantra, that's the way it was. monday the shop talk is guarded with aerosol towards the weekend. underground, the region’s limestone bedrock is honeycombed by more than a thousand caves and uncounted underground springs and streams. in the twenty-first century we are charmed by comparisons and helpless, unanswered questions until we switch, for less, until now having settled for another day in bed. sandstone closets from the late 50s to the mid 70s, the next time will be wet and under starlight, our approach is to launch the disappeared, maybe three or four hundred yards out, lest we forget, with big eyes and even bigger nostrils. the studio has been focusing on one thing in particular: he who lives without folly isn't so wise as he thinks. the culprit has a large red ladder. photographs of both animals can be found along the northern slope. without seals, we wouldn't have that. the creatures have come up with yet another theory.

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