Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Eleven Summer 2006 |
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Self-Anointed David Blaine Lately, you’ve been scouring the dark using your eyes like the nimble paws of some Egyptian-cat-goddess-in-residence clawing a clutch of stars from the sky hiding them under a Persian carpet someplace south of Lansing or Blue Island someplace where the liquor’s cheaper and the bars still let you smoke. You’ve temporarily replaced the constellations with plasma sparks and rail dust but the ghosts of those ancient Greek goat-fuckers are going to be pissed when they can’t spy Aries or Orion’s Belt tonight. You say you’re just cleaning up around here. Well, that’s ambitious, but I can still find grit out among the gaseous nebula. You say you’re going to re-name the heavenly bodies before putting them back, one by one. Well, maybe you could call the North Star Plath or Whitman, but before re-inventing the villanelle why not listen to the voices of readers and writers not to be born for a hundred more years, asking Who? |
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About David Blaine |