But the next time the acupuncture stopped which it must have, must have, I remember that day in 1962 before I was alive.
I was floating in someone’s parked car, but that wasn’t me beneath the windy pennants and Texaco sign, I was elsewhere, I wasn’t here.
one wrecked dirty white Oldsmobile in prehistoric sand there was
a mirage on pale buff highway sky dissolved in ancient sunlight as the road goes on into the invention of geometry and
forgotten gangsters, bebop trumpet in the wind, tenor sax & piano, muted brushes on the snare
Forget about it. It’s so goddamn.
All those orchestras of whatness buzz.
Swift sword next to a highway, insects crawl on a terrible nude.
Blink in atomic light then everything’s old.
You do that, fucking tired, fractured reflection, nosebleed, otherness expands. He moved his bandaged hand.
Babe I’m so dead for you.
And on the ceiling, nothing ever
remembers how
I was
About the author:
I. Fontana has lived in Avignon and Guadalajara; now is in Portland, Oregon. Other pieces have been in BOMB, Bikini Girl, Spork Press, Gigantic.
