YOUR IDEA OF COMMUNICATION IS SAILING TO THE SOUND OF NO ONE DRIVING AWAY
And now, for my next trick, I will play back the punctuation you built in a bottle while
drunk and broken on a model gravel driveway I left as a tiny oceanliner’s maiden voyage
leaves you and that bottle in your wild hand to sail to some deserted island of lost memories
and perhaps entertaining such running recursive thoughts in writing is a writer’s attempt
at avoiding writing, only leaving the Ars Unpoetica to cryptically underdetail disamibiguities
as though the only truth in any sharp piece of art is the truth that art can’t tell you, truthfully
reaching through this bottleneck with cold hooks on long rods, dressing you in tornness
and jeans and a ragged tank top, topping your small plastic figure off with a miniature bottle
of the same bottle of El Toro you’re drowning in, the same bottle I built this diorama in
as my tweezers reach inside again, placing a grain of sand for each and every rock
of gravel in this speck-like facsimile of what used to be our driveway, your driveway, or
some guy’s driveway we rented from somebody, that driveway you screamed couldn’t be
my fucking driveway, and as these statements and the Droste effect are cheap products of
vanity, creations using the same careful hooks and cold rods as their creators, I place myself
next to you in a badass leather jacket with my leg halfway over the hog for posterity
because, in reality, I was really wearing skinny jeans with a matching jacket and
never have I ever owned a motorcycle, but I did once, when I was younger, kinda
make a moped look the same as a sorta small Harley if seen with a slight bent, like a ship
inside a bottle breaking, or a diorama of Hiroshima built into the hanger of Enola Gay,
or a gift shoppe you have to walk through to exit Macy’s, or some other Russian doll type
emptiness we sell in America where the corporations eat their own tails and I digress
from my digressions shattered in these bottles and back to the bottle swinging in your hand
while wondering what else that bottle’s breaking, what titanic cracks running through it and
your body, what has left its unsinkable across sea gravel lining your belly, what recursive art
commemorates leaving, what genetic memories don’t ask or speak but scream symphonies
of whimpering, a choir of cribs dreaming of careers in interior designing a better broken home
as his tires peel out on a thousand tiny shards of driveway and glittering split-leveled bottles
for little soprano girls are barely heard in the back of the bottle in your hand, and funny how
I echo in this bottle belonging to you dad, funny how I can’t recall this beginning, funny how
snakes were present before we entered eden, and funny who we find coiled before the quince
drops a mild disagreement over all those soon to be global thermal nuclear gift shops and all
Barbies cloister inside themselves as Kens leave them in Macy’s with nothing and I, inside all
these bottles, drop this bottle and somewhere in Mexico the whole goddamn El Toro Factory
shatters into a thousand tiny plastic red hats and long rods with tiny hooks pull out of
our world broken where a bomb dropped and we watch a thousand paper cranes unfolding
God’s self-consuming hand finally pouring our tiny ship of ghosts into a giant sea. Tada!
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