Joni Wallace
Water tower # 17 with neorealism and rye
Open the sheer deer curtains into the wide, white rink.
If I am cinematographer, a foil sole, bench seats where one sits and sits some more.
If I am metteur-en-scene, a flysheet, invisible ink pen to ink in the ghost particles,
sinkers on the trinket tray. All the way to China. And standstill, the walls.
Oh to have been.
A silver screen, a retro-moviola's lyric Mobius, tinsel of multiple tenses.
If I were oneirographer, beginning, middle, end-deer, a threnody.
Enter deer # 0529 (star of light emitted).
And entered deer # 0228, deer # 0318, deer # 0816 (boom, boom, boom said the boom carpet).
Is clockwork a-dumbing, is daisy chain.
Deer # 2332, a smasher, a would be, rye whiskey, a cryyy.
Do you hear that melody?
Little King Stone, I whisper.
Took the light rail, baby. Straight down to nowhere. And never come up.
Do not let the children see. Said no one in particular.
