Devious women with wonderful smiles, individually crafted by mysterious artisans who have supplied them with ambiguous artifacts as well. I myself hold a hand-crafted spear; it rings against the clear quartz and stimulates the brain with tinkling, transcendent noises; while the carnelian helps my kidneys (on occasion in the nick of time), and infusions of onyx strengthen the skeletal outline for when the teeth of the predator clamp down . . . but let's set aside ruminations on mortal adversity, for I have assumed the form of a mythic bird, which has infuriated my designated consort, an earth-bound divinity, and she inundates the tale with plagues, improbabilities, and endless cross-referencing, to the point where no one will read it; and even the visage of the Supreme Redactor darkens in perplexity as he slowly crumples my account into oblivion . . . but the malachite neckpiece repels the disappointment and luminescent whisperings inspire the feet to move on. In reality the room remains dark. The current divinity opens her eyes and within a minute or so we are gone for an hour or so, moistened with sunlight from the abyss.
|The East Village Poetry Web