and
wondered briefly what it meant,
such
visitations in our sleep,
portent
of a certain kind of sweet.
clue
to look back upon all his life
as
once warned or promised.
He’s
fine with taking chances,
shaving
with a plastic razor careful not to cut his face,
the
day unfurling in his head as if icing on a cake
could
rise in animation, flit and fly about,
as
people’s voices turned to birdsong,
brittle
chirpping and French cooing
everyone
happy to hope for the best.
Bombolino
smiled as he walked some memories into jail.
(They
knew what they did.)
And
wondered how one woman would promise
to
be everything forever, goddess claim,
as
if the disappointment that haunts everybody
had
finally been eliminated by vaccine.
“We
head into the impossible, I guess,”
he
thought, glad that he still could.
Fearless
and stupid is the way to start a family.
Live
out the novel, book to be co-authored
by
a woman better than he at the life
Bombolino
wanted to fill his old man self.
We
end up with the skin of paper bags,
and
he wants it jammed with the cacophony
and
chaos of kids, days carefully constructed
only
to be blown apart again and again.
Stepping
from one universe
into
another, the door a strawberry blonde
with
crooked lips and eyes animal alert.
Every
breath needs a reason, yet
even
the properties of air may change.
Later,
his jerk cousin from back East
repeats
a line from his football days,
“You’re
mortal, man.” Bombolino, certain
as
the Earth, replies, “Not today I”m not,”
grinning
like a man who can’t be killed,
like a man who once walked straight the path of love,
like a man who'll one day plant an apricot tree
to declare a part of our frontier his.
like a man who once walked straight the path of love,
like a man who'll one day plant an apricot tree
to declare a part of our frontier his.
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