Fancy Limes at a Sponging House and The Biographical Fallacies Found in Migration’s Anxious Knuckles

Fancy Limes at a Sponging House

He strikes me asthe type whom, even thoughhis slacks are beltedat his waist, would still feelthe need to carry onwith his hands grippingthe tops of each sidelike suspenders, afraidthey may fall, still.

“They’ve conditioned us here,” he spoke up, finally, “to be so afraid. But, there has to be a place where we could go. We weren’t born here.”

“But, my power,” I responded, “extends only to the walls.”

A drinking ration.

“You enjoy it here?” he asked.

“It’s quiet.”

“Then, that’s the difference between you and I. I don’t swallow it--the quiet.”

“I know. It’s good for the morale, since there’s no chance of escape. It’s because you don’t want to be a part of what you’re hearing.”

Silence is a very largebreed and a brother ofa friend that lies onlyin their briefs, a dirty-lookingbrown, pushed further upthe thighs; sweat overthe body and thighs. Andat times, you can find itwalking the mediansof an intersection, in theground clouds, panhandlingwith its ball cap, and its button-down,and its slacks, with a signreading: Homeless: that’snot where I’m headed.

“Have you lost weight?” I asked him. “No? Well, then I guess you’re just tired, then.”

“Just tired,” he said.

But, there was sound:

And its rhetorical stance wasthat sounds should be takenseriously; its plots, its whirlings,its marriage, its jealousies. . .

It’s a dodge.

*Sound: a breathtaking account of a life, death and plague groped in sound.

It’s only human to dodge.

We can listen outsidethe walls and its distractionsbecause sounds are supplementsthat react rapidly, by a squeeze,yet think autobiographically,unsure of its breaks:

Sound: a breathtaking account of a life, death and plague groped in sound

CHAPTER ONE

How to dislodge Swoop.

I remember hearing. . .

CHAPTER TWO

Building a still to slow down time.

I wondered if there indeed existed another aesthetic that they could’ve utilized. Was there another instrument they could’ve taken up?

CHAPTER THREE

A plastic grocery bag blowing across an intersection

Come see about me, I thought to myself.

CHAPTER FOUR

I am (underlined) a man.

I wanted you by dreams.

CHAPTER FIVE

Two separate rooms

Like meat by the case.

EPILOGUE

Let-up

I ended by adding a window sill to slow down time.

. . .

A bucket in the middleof the room, teasing them;collecting only sound.

     “I used to drive outside; one of those trucks with the directional signs.”

I could hear knocks lookingfor hollows. Hands being drugacross a chain-linked fence.I could hear.

With its things lying about.

Much like a kite.

The Biographical Fallacies Found in Migration’s Anxious Knuckles

She didn’t want to be recognized,incredible chaos of the brain. But,to stick close and tell funny andlaugh soon enough.

Because it was simple: a single, tidypulse; an overawed and casual yawningwalk—or a chair—warm with irritation.

I used to collect loudness, she’d say, likethe road to success singing from thebig chair if—and only if—at least you’dreplace me with another,one-hundred times more difficult.

     “I met him on a bench that, for some constructive     reason, sat facing a signboard reading: Electrical Room:     No More Allowable Room Except For Electricities.”

Because sound is premeditated: a humanvoice in certain atmosphericconditions. And the effect of thisclimate on the soul is nothingto be taken way; the famishedand the unthinkable.

The overcast light she’d have:impossible to hollow out belowthe surface of the dirt and not comeup with a body, dead.

     At the bottom of my wash basin.

The consequences of this lightis the body: down to its crutches.And you’d expect there’d be otherpeople—except the dead.

But, she was partial to the apt...