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Man on the Move
By Cliff Saunders
Quailbellmagazine.com POOL OF CANDLES Here comes Dennis again, rowing himself across his duck pond and breathing fire. Even when he wanders, he’s no schmo. He can play trombone, but he has amnesia and shakes his demons by reading bones. He’s that good. He’s a horse that must not be named. He’s the Mr. Ed of the marital bed. There he goes again, wooing the night away like a fast cat, like a man possessed. He’s the Lt. Colombo of love. He’s the patron saint of perpetual motion. Tonight he’ll know how to grieve, and he’ll invite whomever he wants into the pool of his own fragility. But can he blow out all those candles? TRANSFORMERLY A foghorn’s wail washes ashore like a bubble bursting. So why can’t you see it? Because you want to eye the tigers, to peer into violins that reveal the dark chestnuts in your heart. You want to be the size of a paperback and sing to a mailbox near you. No overcrowded ports — just you and the nuns caressing the shore with your hair. Bless you! You’re as crazy as a smashed ping-pong ball. And you know you want to kiss the right vacuum! You survive by barely masking your cheese library with teddy bears. It’s telling you to pursue your half of Satan, but you’re feeling as fickle as a prom queen. Your eyes water at the thought of sleeping in church with cement shoes on your lap. You’ve got to have clouds in your heart, taste the scene of the crime with nary a whimper. By the time you finish reading this, you are the color of an envy-inducing coin. * * * MAN ON THE MOVE A man can’t believe he’s a blue gem, a conclusion without storms. He can’t believe he’s the maze of memory itself. Tired of all the zigzags in his head, he turns himself into a year of uncertainty. Tired of getting left behind with the lights on, he places his soul in a warm bowl of frog eggs and disappears into his navel. The man claims to be the ubiquitous tick of a clock on a stick of dynamite. He simply can’t afford to live forever behind the Groucho mask. Like a nomad he crawls up the leaning lighthouse of a grateful nation. He walks on between travelers, walks on his hands down this road filling up fast with Halloween costumes. * * * MY THREE WISHES May the happy sheep of Egypt sing from the rubble of a huge pyramid. May the best chocolate nests feed off of each other like pages in a sorcerer’s book. May the wall of worms standing alone in a desert open into this opulent velvet sofa! * * * COLLECTING DUST (AS WELL AS MY THOUGHTS) Over my dead body is a diamond growing hair. Every now and then I allow God to speak through me like a kick in the gut. I love my church of cheese holes and green feet. I love it more than a tombstone kissed by the sun. Hey, I’m just a hopeless romantic who gets free by flying the blue flag of surrealism, who gets free by sparing the spoon. It’s not about me. It’s about the dust ringing the moon and clinging to the pillows, to a traveler’s lips. That’s fine with me: I am nothing if not this year’s dust.
#UnReal #Poem #Surrealism #Wishes #Time #Demons #Motion #Love #God #ManontheMove #Manifesto #Memory
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