Michelle Noteboom
Another good intention goes belly up.
We plunge from the heights of a je-ne-sais-quoi to nervously breaking down devastation, fifty-foot nose dive off a platform into the proverbial Dixie cup. When you’re batting with unwieldly bosoms and a borrowed green car, don’t ration out the lasso. Caught red-handed with a flotation device, the sneeze was quite simply unstifleable. Intensive thickets filled with starlings stuffing their feathered little selves full of moths. Somebody’s something always seems to be banging. A swirled cocoon and pliers, the shadow of a screw. The neurological center which is my head. A dream in sequences consolidating memory like your life projected on the walls of a house. Said house poised like a preying mantis in prefab silence and chill: all aluminum rafter steel shaft bearings, joists and beams. Because something is rare you’re allowed to like it. Spinning idle mental circles and wondering about froth. Parlons de la tête chez le rat. And here we are caught invisible again like action figures or lab mice while the clouds grow venular in the pink-frilled sky. Read the condensation on the window, the sweat on the lip, the butter melted on the toast in the morning. Tea-soaked butter, honeybutter, applebutter, garlic & butternut squash, snails and butter, prawns and butter, Marlon Brando and butter in a cup or on a finger. Then salad. Then Pepto Bismol. You hurtle toward me through a raw-lit tunnel on a high-speed people mover. Ear-popping pustules and occipital love. Such tactics are selfish and sad. Finish adjusting your crotch and get over here so we can try this thing out I saw on TV.
