By: John Thomas Allen
Onomatopoeia’s clinical thread:
the pulse and click of doctor’s
shoes, oath often a mere wishbone:
And how can this be, but it is,
as a snake eats itself, ouroboros.
Holes are blown in the sky’s blue pail,
each living day. You slept through
the therapy aides swan dance,
their laying on of hands, searches.
Hunger games, food flying
like shrapnel, bone flute hands
whistling the march down split halls
of swinging compact mirrors, lips
and eyes coalescing in a refracting error
a funhouse glare of corporate beauty,
eyes and ears sewn on cut borders.
The logic of fall, to wither in grace,
with a biting itch of gravity’s transit
Before your humped spine
arched against the George Washington Bridge.
Before the corrugated dawn
of early morning Manhattan you
skipped an imaginary rope,
a fashioned rainbow, digging up the earth.
it cast a shadow like an undead halo,
just beating the sun’s fractal wheel
its planetary grids splitting in sieves,
shade and sun trails. Too vast, too filled
with pagan carnage and a hungry flower’s
appetite for ascetics drawing down marvels,
subordinating the solar system
to a holy skin deep.
it cast a shadow like Barbie’s hairshirt.
About the shadow: I never saw it.
I believe it was there.
You were talking on evening’s points,
light on the Hudson, not in the shade’s
transit, bright red hair on bone.
One day a man who claimed he caught fireflies
with his tongue, waist bent from a car accident,
always on about picking a lottery ticket
from a dead man’s pocket, or one injured
in traffic—that he would—said flatly:
“Her heart exploded.” You weren’t there
to hear. We talked about it for three weeks.
John Thomas Allen wants to be a cat man instead of a cat lady, thus engendering a gender revolution. He likes Christian tarot, JK Huysman’s, and Charles Wright. He’s been in Arsenic Lobster Journal, Sein Und Werden, and Grey Sparrow Journal.