Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Twenty-five Spring 2011 |
Synesthesiastic Amtrak Sonnet Dennis Mahagin's When the fat conductor smiled at a honey child across the aisle, I distinctly heard the beet stains on his front teeth thump 19 kinds of miles, like Alvin and the Chipmunks, a bump and grind of a particular kind, all inside a leather cup for tossing vials and craps dice-- while reading lights shot glissandos of saxophones. Dimmer switches, you see, can sense a see saw out of spite, a blown fart came on me like a fuse, Whitefish depot at dawn, it lit apart like match heads mating with One Cheek Sneak. Abetted by a smart black man porter, as if to peek at my ticket, said: Albacore? Unleaded? This Scatman pranced from dining car to sleeper berth, tapping snakes for a cane. He barber-striped my spine through the switch backs, feted my whistle that blew in cool shades of lime...Then Kelly, who makes an aisle, always, across my mind, said lightning is shaped as wrist veins on Wichita switchmen. Observation deck? Blue, with streaks. She came. |
About Dennis Mahagin's |