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Posts Tagged ‘fantasy’

Poetry Magazine and “Khaleesi Says,” has Kickassery!!

Editor of Poetry Magazine, Don Share, shared this online and I’m grateful.  Kickassery indeed!! I’m proud to be a part of it.

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They were craving for more and wheeling for meaning. To open a place of their own. It might have lead to triumph, if they hadn’t wolfed all the accents: the flounderings and the groundlings. A round letter ate a flat, then a flat ate an accented, then one whispered, Viva the Revolution.

 

One held a banner under his chin.  One played a flute in the corner. One practiced marching at night on the lawn. One was vain. One got the boot.  One brushed his horse, ready for battle. One wrote love letters. One filed invoices. One memorized the Bill of Rights. One braided and unbraided their hair in the mirror. One dreamt of a brighter day of equality where all members would be free.                                                                                                                                                     

One fled.

 

They were all in-betweening, all careening and just believing, They were all lustfully-bleeding for an inn of their own.   A claw-footed tub; a window seat with ruffles; a canopy bed, and of course a hot plate. Then, the meaning came a-wheeling. A feeling they were stealing, and then they were  suddenly craving more. 

 

They were ruthless and borrowed monies from the grocer. They paid bills at the bank, and scuffled in alleyways and side-streets. Their knife-fights were calculated and contrived.

 

 

Blood was spilled. It stank. It stank bad and badly stank. They could smell their time was coming. They could feel its cool hand at their door. They wanted to be inviting and humble and kind. They wanted a guest. They needed a guest. They put an ad in the Town Crier.  They taped signs to lamp posts, to school buses, and to dogs.  They sent carrier pigeons.

 

They did not discriminate against other variables.  They replaced and painted the gutter. They hung a sign. When the TAX ID came, they felt justified and justiced and justly appointed as bearers of the night.

 

© Umansky 2012

 

 

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They entered the house through the window.

Exploring the methods of beams and glass. They tinkered with the blinds and danced in the curtains. 

Their whiteness                    so abstract                              that    it seemed to  cast a                                 shine down the hallway floor.  

The leader had a repertoire of roles.                               She,       half angel                and                      half moonbeam began to familiarize herself with the landscape.

 

                 This was a woman’s house, she thought.

 

The others waited. Gawking over the silverware in the kitchen.

H twirled her hair round a fork, while

G fell in love with her reflection in a butter knife. 

P was found with her nose in the breadbox, sniffing the odor of sweet brown bread.  

Having picked out the raisins and dropped them on the floor, she hurried to the stair where the leader was petting the daffodils on the banister.

They carved their names and wingspans into that banister.  Then marveled over:

                                                                                                1) a woman’s hairpin on the night table

                                                                                                2)a long hair on the pillowcase,

 

Then, they remembered remembering the woman’s voice.

One  sang; while another tried on the woman’s dresses.

The leader didn’t like the so-called intervention. 

                                                Let us not bask in their glory, cried She,

                                                remember, we too have a nation to remember.

 

She was not happy.  They all nodded in agreement.  Then, the woman came home.

They lifted to the ceiling then out to the pointed corners of the roof then floated off and away from the house and into the air, and then                                 like electrically,                    like a current, they were:  gone.

 A raisin was dropped on the front porch.                                                                                     

 

© 2012

 

 

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