Home of the Cubit Idea
By Noelle Kocot
“Your dizzy is my dizzy,” she said,
And, “I'll give you a swift kick in your apocrypha.”
Then there was the smudge of elements
On an empty Sunday, a long bird flying overhead.
Freedom came gusting in, the yonder of his reflections.
“I convenant you, my paramour, my satellite.
You are all potential, the coin before it's been called,
The future without a gloaming.
You eat in my house and in a full saloon-
Girl suit, you salute me. Giddyup!”
They lived in an arena of tangents,
Yet the tangential was as close to them as a stigmatic sun
Walking on bloodied snowcaps.
Let's just say they had syntax on their hands,
And torched their burnished grammar to the hilt.
Things sat around in pots for weeks and sprouted
then they sprouted, and kept sprouting,
and still, kept sprouting.
Finally, they moved far away from the small violence
of their younger days to a star-shaped apartment in a field.
They missed their old crazy vegetation
but found that telling a good joke over a stale beer
is just as satisfying and, in fact, emotionally healthier.
But their corn still goes "Rye!"
The potted plant goes, "La, la."
