Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Which Door Closed

Begin with bantam spongy fishes dehydrated; willy nilly pitched
            along with glo rocks the neons of a six-pack of cotton
            panties anymore and magic culled from mushroom planet
            books where—in classifieds—you see an ad—finally—
            you want to respond to:
                        “WANTED (read the small notice, printed -
                        oddly - in green):  A small space ship, about
                        eight feet long, built by a boy, or by two
                        boys, between the ages of eight and
Some days we love the people the people quiet in their
            fresh-faced Hello, Sun trot of sustenance, and doggies
            offered one last pee before life and key turn inward
            for an indeterminate spell.
Some days we balk at making cross with the sorcery of
            a doorframe.
We summon the inspiration of personal catechism (has one
            Arthurian blade a little tough to access, a faithful white-
            foam geyser spouting like a tabby-whiskered preacher
            towards Heaven, and seven peacock feathers beloved
            of Terpsichore, the very muse herself, when the west
            was wild with longing).
Some days fish rehydrate, swell with the surprise of dimension
            and spirit, make a joyous pivot into traffic of the infinite

Cameron, Eleanor. The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet
Little Brown.  New York: 1954.  ("Which Door Closed" pub. in The Smoking Poet.

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