Rhapsody in Brew
June-11-2018
"Our bodies are like
the confessional booth these
poems are stuck in."
Second week into a new job. Morning in Charlestown reminds you of Fall. One fall from the top of a slide. Another fall into the cold ocean air. You wrote in a poem about rain, that every sundry drop is a free fall away from your end.
Take a nap before the next six-hour French kiss with that strange coding machine, curling a foreign tongue, a knight you must kill before raping the princess.
You dreamt of what has already happened: a half-naked old man bathing the mid-day sun; two girls kissing while the whole city marching pass the river; the distant cry of an owl, wings broken.
Strange occurence in your beautiful ordinary life. Dead drain bugs moved by wind, looked like crawling, looked alive.
Next to your cubicle is a painting of a plasticated human brain. It stares back at your plastic wings, mimicking a flight.
