The Acts

A man outside the pharmacy,
Beside the carmine crust of a
Truck, Asked me if I was okay.
Months ago. I think, I sleep and
Wake on slabs, on slabs
Like rootless rafts - I had forgotten
Him. His trim face deep with
Wise wells. And a billed hat.

There was a rap of pistons on glass,
Pallid phalanges, and the
Coiled hair, manikin fairy, eyes
Mined from a geode. She strode
In unwelcome air, placed the cleaver
In my hand. She did not know the
Hazard, rutted brain, the
Blemished land. We spoke of writing.

Why do clocks look more like Shiva,
Blades of planes chopping days
To a fog of pills. I had forgotten him.
Fire halo, the monocle. Thrashing
Through molasses that is today,
Is tomorrow. Dicing up these acts.

Fonts are fractal, jagged lines each
Stamped with the time. Where is the
Advancement in that? The calligraphy?
Common names: Connie, 

Deborah, Susan.
They are kind to me. Middle-aged
Mysteries I’ll never meet.
They are kind to me.

© 2014 BENJAMIN SMITH