Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Twenty-one Winter 2009 |
Cold Load John Olson Eagle the blue echo with veins. Ventilate black the same way. House it in walnut. The skeleton letters thump the nails in. The raft begins to moan with anarchy. During our boots we beckon cement. A miserable enough timber intrinsic to the occasion of milk scaffolds the impulse carrying these things forward. As if the reader’s eyes could understand the blackjack of medicine. As if anyone could hoe such fluids. Just the idea of these equations inveigles narcotics and dots. Chalk the walnut between your fingers and begin the escalator quarry. The energy of the scallions pound the retina to its revival in aluminum. It is hard to engineer shampoo. But we should since the scallops have proven to be such a miracle in jail. Ephemeral that in vehicular milkweed. Such zebras as enhance unanimity during cucumber. The perpetual soft-peddles itself to the garage. Orange begins when the fish drops. The firecracker thunders and jolts the circuit. The introvert flaps through an autopsy. The adrenalin of autonomy amplifies the experience of food. The inchoate always bends to taste the wisdom of cream. Knife the yam as it pours. The quell in our meat is our own appetite. Apertures and clouds. The apocalypse. Lacquer perception with binoculars. Thermometer to the bottom when the hassock swings. Necessity scintillates in cords. I’m not kidding. The jaguar was that tall. Crinkle the edifice or that cloud will spill its beans. Arc while the verge may gravel. A pound of quarto is worth two in the avocado. Medals are merchandise. The trumpet is more like a kiss than a chickadee. Hug the tapioca. The bark on that tree is ample and thick. Therefore quiver not when the telescope rises. It may not be entirely sympathetic but the stars are hanging in blatant fraternity and the math involved is far too temperamental to solve by blackboard. |
About John Olson |