Apothecary Cluck,
image by Irene Koronas
RHYTHMS I.
When there was a real rhythm and
pace to follow an insane drummer on the top of a hill vibrant hair standing on
end bodily fluids smeared on his face as he pounds out a beat that you can’t
help but follow lust and passion hope and life desire and death.
RHYTHMS II.
Studied and pondered like an old
and complicated map nosily unfurled and indelicately fanned where naïve wisps
coalesce and the background canvas begs for release from a silhouette existence
apex and terminus together as one vision colliding.
RHYTHMS III.
Like demonic gulls tuning in
dispatching deciphering blending bending frequency caws memetic apothecary
clucks raspy parps territorial wingspans street preacher human computer code
moralist hoards compete to police the dump valve.
RHYTHMS IV.
Her speech the sounds the
movements of her mouth and jaw the glistening of her lips as they slide over
teeth in a smile the soft contortions of her tongue forming words she is a door
when others are windows but I have lost that key.
—Fusiform Gyrus
