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pointed to the same confusion. On the second Monday the third person persevered. Tiny toes like exclamation points, doubts, or daffodils. The master of ceremonies sobbed off the opportunity to introduce his own death. Chanting, mutinous, the girls in their hearts danced on pins and needles, stalking expired goals. Souled like dreaming dogs: backwards sever, forward fever. Naysayers said their. Bed-layers lied. Mixed wintry standards dropped precipitously on the embryonic future poking its head from the earth’s gut. The spicy among them inverted their convolutions to the nth degree. (Ready, begin). Out-rhymed, intellect ceded the probabilistic navigation to instinct & its moody henchmen. Lolling yet again on shaky ground, the middle deliquesced to flab & folded.
or Madam, until you lose your head, mother its shred, wrapped in mystery & mead. No levity for this, your skid life. No mercy while you bilk your betters, sent flying to spy on your attempts to rise. Across the deep there are many with nary a hook to hang on. & ever & anon those lads with rainbow limbs snaking through the gloom. Another day another dolor. Not to mince woulds, but this sibilance is skilling us. & you who wish upon a stare? Where would you turn & fleetly tumble? The Burning Dervish never knows whereof he'd speak, mute as he is, spinning in his vicious circle, boring his whole through our dank & dappled gaps.
as this lost house, vacancy immured in cryptic walls. Underestimate this risk or die trying. Slavering like angered bills, nestled between some & none. Introductions like leaky cups, a masquerade of sight. Hail to the cheat & other icy escapades, indebted to begetting microbes haloing our dreams. Careful, in our slap-dash way, like typewriter monkeys theeing & thouing ‘til the vowels come roam. Standing in place, aerobically enmeshed. Thrashed and slathered. Illusion of stability mister and missed until baby makes free. Heralded by our times to a fare-thee-well, folded like angered proteins riding flotsam brains. Like cows tipped & teetering, hale fellows well set, madly stranded on this beached & rolling rock, riding out its hurtled spin.
SUSAN LEWIS lives in New York City and edits Posit. She is the author of eight books and chapbooks, most recently This Visit (BlazeVOX, 2015), How to be Another (Červená Barva Press, 2014), and State of the Union (Spuyten Duyvil Press, 2014). Her work is forthcoming or has recently appeared in The Awl, The Brooklyn Rail, Connotation Press, Gargoyle, Luna Luna, Ping Pong, Prelude, Propeller, and Yew. More at www.susanlewis.net.
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