Hanging On
By A
Gospel ThreadBy Jon Slone
Their promethean trenches transform the pliable earth all around me.
A burnt match destined for greatness.Stamps of their subsistence hollow me out like a severed bough, deep within the
Forgotten Forest.On
Sinking Street, opulent Castles blossom like bulrushes along the Nile. And I’m left to suppose how it is that my ramshackle hut resides on the same street?
Cadaverous strangers gulp-in the eesome sky, and shed their troubles in my backyard like blankets of long-tooth skin.
I’m as conspicuous as the backing of a cross stitch.
An Infinitesimal, flaxen-locked orb of nothing, buried in a brackish lost-and-found box!
Disconsolate as an empty ice cube tray.
A paper wad in the
Trash-Can Sea, hanging on by a gospel thread!
Irretrievably homesick and a hardboot for what’s behind curtain number three.
Curtain one and two are but mountebank dreams.
Sinking Street is a chimerical mist.
For Tim Laagos!
Jon
BigHElittleme Slone
