The Sunday paper fades: on the corner
the grizzled man handkerchiefs his brow, lounging on a chaise of canvas and wood - under the umbrella the June sun beats and blinds upon, he glazes in the fumes; he’s selling news already stale, ink soured in the heat; flyers, blaring bargains, almost melt, the plastic sticky, coupons past their date; the gossip’s all black and white and prurient as a bygone belle in a gown of dingy yellow crepe; summer swarms of gnats and scores of runic games, read for signs of future gains, a play by play of yets-to-be, and paneled stories in color for a time; stacks unsold on the green table stand towered like a paper pyramid soon crumbled into pulp, a decomposing mold, of photos in pixelated blur and out of focus words, life transcripted, a buzz of headlines smeared with yesterday.
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The glitch in the mouse used to run in the house,
but it seems to have gone in the ether; and whether we find in the wires that wind around the battery base cantilever, or whether she’s lost in midsummer frost and icicles whose flavor amuse her, she’s sure to return, this glitch never learns, and circle the circuits, the sneaker; yet going around the keyboard profound we’ll search through the web til we meet her - the caught little glitch no data will snitch so with pixels and bits we will treat her. |
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October 2016
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