Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Fifteen Winter 2007 |
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Out There Jon Boulier This train is like a desert. A useless novelty act, populated by clowns and toothless gunslingers with smeared mud on the bottom of their brown-cow boots. The ticket man doesn't care about the numbers as much as he cares about the swish-swish-swish of his handheld snakebites the ones that poison you slowly through the folds of your wallet, until you're the opposite of green. rustling newspapers inside, discarded paper cups once filled with coffee that tip and roll, casting in a wide perimeter the remainder of their contents, dark like southern skin and thick with settled milk. the trees outside lull the rails to sleep with their soft whispering a field of blue leather-wrapped seats swaying with the pounding steel, a steaming history made electric with the grinding sound in the cracks of the glass. |
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About Jon Boulier |