Paragraph 3(b)

By Philip Byron Oakes

A closet in the clause, in the law of incredulity,
insulates a wardrobe for the dapper of the shadows,
pouncing on the fear of being seen. Glutted
dieticians translate cuneiform into alphabet soup,
to wile away the prophecies of meatloaf and
French fries for dinner. Crude likenesses,
of the anonymously collected remnants of a
handshake, inspire amputees to garner the fleshy
sensations of their youth: in a grasp of facts as
fixed in photos, of the battle for the heart of an
indifferent string of acquaintances, wrapped
around a maypole, approximating the center
of a long conversation falling victim to the
serendipities of silence. Great plains of self
straggle into the mirage that precedes the
scissors' stroke of the horizon, two eyes
marooned in a mirror, multiplied by the walking
speed of light into a vast metaphor of bowels,
perpetually churning out the aftereffects of
eggs benedict on the sly ride into the
remembrance of things to come.

 

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