men who meet typewriters in a field

under separated clouds,
like clothes separated in
a dresser drawer,
 
leaves behind it, the dull,
inconspicuous shade,
‘€ (‘ %);
 
of the keytop, ribbon, etc;
Ɛ still existed, typed
 
the endless typewriter page
on 60# bond semi-white,
aging paper
 
longer than any existing tree;
 
men in executive, three piece
attire walked,
 
spun the gold chain.
spent dough
on the
 
black shoe shine
 
suspenders, socks up the long leg,
 
women secretaries’ paid to knit
the brain,
 
their hair twisted in the french
twist, ce n’est pas
que spéciale;
 
.25 caliber in the faux leather
bag, waiting for the
knee touch,
 
bang the gun slowly,
like a toy drum,
slowly,
 
[space bar],
 
but, home to the wife and
kiddies with
the big smile
s.o.b.;
 
they. walked through the field air
the rain hand washed, unclear
on the concept,
 
& the old #163
steamed the steam,
 
like wives ironed white collar
shirts with rusty water,
 
old rail bled the
workers’ who
laid the
track,
 
hands worn out like old railroad ties,
 
they. shook off the steam, the dust,
like the carpet
remnant
 
beaten on a clothes line,
dust choked the air;
 
papers by now, reached the
heavenly heaven,
 
words on, biblical in just
the right proportion,
 
spread just the right amount of light;
 
souls saved?
 
they. yelled at the derailed conductors,
“don’t play the sunday
service with
us;”
 
“effing A on that.”
 
“we changed the typewheel,
according to our own
experience,”
 
“yes, of course;
of course;”
 
x on the wrist skin
for proof
of
 
ownership
“(secret society
of course).”
 
now. typewriters back in their
cases,
 
the field dusted for ownership;
 
now. transcending recognition,
end.
 
 
Copyright © 04/21/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
Image
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