Shiny Debris

Left foot aching to right foot her stomach crabbing to blind cubicle walls. Outside new heat denses into a fog slapping wet onto the cold clutched Chicago drinkables. In a coffee shop somewhere below a man who thinks she has pretty eyes indeed I could kiss them lids closed as if coffined lips offered in place of pennies. Elsewhere below a treadmill or perhaps a rowing machine houses a man who thinks she smells funny not wearing a distinct scent some sort of mask for body undress, my, like a see-thru slip for June atop black panties nothing else called for extreme attention by a bicycle climbing Clark Street Friday afternoon not yet time to meet a barstool but time for Noticing, outside margarita, salted, or beer, crisp. These truths attimes so tremendously apparent could possibilize a poem for a lunchtime short orchestra to be pasted as a Face-status-up-Book for the instigation of a response from Someone Who Understands. He might live in Brooklyn with a woman but this matters not when they offer small summations of each other to themselves in what an ad campaign might think to call ‘The Sharpered Image,’ when, in fact, it is a blurring, like, an edgy Lynchian smudging of the film into a shot that feels nervous about the world, spelled ‘whorled’ in one poem, spelled ‘pome,’ and he will understand this, of course, or pretend it’s obvious, if not.

Posted 09/24/09