Tomorrow, I see Fat Nancy from the office
reading the police beat in the weekend edition.
Her chapped lips and lavender sweatsuit.
I watched her ignite a warehouse this morning,
Dumping gas across the shelves and aisles
while
"Hungry Eyes" played steady on the club
radio.
I saw her exit through the side alarm door
and slip on a day-glo parking guard jacket.
She spat a wad of cinnamon gum on the
asphalt.
I saw some twigs adopting pebbles as their own.
The sky smoky and overcast. Fire sirens behind me.
I saw chicken bones on a pile of eucalyptus leaves.
From my view up in the towers, I could
see
the absolute industrial blaze of 92nd street
and the getaway car from an acre away.
A blob of lavender, hysterical behind the wheel.
Trailblazing
The belly of aerial boats.
The shaded fuzz of fireants
riding the bees to the stable.
The burlap treasure chest
dug up from golf course radius.
Where there used to be a station
embedded in the sand dunes.
Call it New Arabia,
or Labelmaker Incorporated.
The stirrups built into the haystacks.
The placard for your doorknob
placed there to commemorate
the fountain explosion of '89
which triggered a landslide of how comes.
The bullseyes on archery row.
The twice-married father of invention.
The noises you're hearing from outside
are the hoot of the guardian owls.
About
the Author
Karl Lintvedt
is a geography student at an El Cajon, California
community college. He enjoys Jeopardy!, beer, and
Charlie Byrd jazz guitar. The odds of him being in
a moving automobile at this very moment lie somewhere
around 1:7. His website
can be found here.
