Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Allen Bramhall

Stinko Goes to the Zoo

It is that quiet, references now emblematic. A pattern of abuse
wanders into a courtyard, looking grand or some strange theory.
Discussion crumbles into quiet particles, each down to the last
expectation. In this gingerly tumble, we think we can begin. Here, in
this edge of worm, this shuck. The density of doors contributes to
outside thinking. Rodeo fans yell in glee, having seen a rider gored
by eminent bull, as if that were the whole telling. Yet unlovely
people, making examples and distributing literature, claim mysterious
rights. The real reason the place stinks is within the books they hold
up. Weapons can’t be changed. The word within any mouth must live its
life in that netherworld imagined for scantest moment. There, where
you can’t turn away, where you can’t ignore or find alternate funding.
There, in that political tornado. Otherwise the weakness wins, people
still cheering for their claimed reasons. We need, we want, we urge,
we taunt: simple as rhyme, simple as time. Stuck in jet set machinery,
waiting for the club to convene, and no bird sings. What trajectory
will claim the rest, the unbidden, the worm-eaten, the next to
nothing? Hello ocean of intensive care, the wound still gapes. People
think they laugh. no bird sings.


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