Aught, no. 11/12 (2003)

Apryl Fox

It Has Not Been Autumn for Seven Years

Macaroni is boiling in a
pot on the stove.
The pot is burnt—it smells
like burnt toast. The macaroni tastes like rubber.
A tire is rubber. It tastes like a tire.
A tire is black like the sea, or
maybe like space endless as my heart.
Or maybe like the burnt stuff at the bottom
of a pot of boiling macaroni.
The astronaut is falling.
Falling. Can you see him,
spinning through air,
falling like a leaf
in autumn? It has not been
autumn for seven years,
and still you are falling, dangling
on a thin string of hope.




I'  ve got a keeyr  ius 
she sayd.

    Now,    where wood 
        she get that krayzy 
        fr  om,
    just        cus I       lyke
    words doos not  meen I got that ol'
                muse lyke that
    poet, what's his 
naym    the 1who     lyked to wright 
about snoe 4 
    sum     reesun.     Poets ar always wrighting
stuff 'bout that.   It's    ther nay-ture, I'm guessin'
    though I don't noe what nay-ture has to do with nothin'
    cus nay-ture is just 
        about all them brds and flowars and got nothin'
    to do with no


Copyright 2003, by the author. All rights reserved.
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