Shot 41

by David L. Paxton

Illegible smoke bakes into blue skirts. Two girls chuckle with slit eyes and bleached teeth under the world gone lavender. Kids daydream harmonicas and hot sand guitars aged with dry wind. Sleep offers itself, but isn’t sleazy enough for night, whether it is day or punch out. Off property tree caves guide until they negative themselves with another property. Sake lighting sidewalks up the mountains supporting fat letter billboards. Four sentences down, the hiss of a single conversation sputtering into the sky expanding with helium. Dispersed geese eat from the pools.

Lunch moves the sun disappeared. Telephones died a long time ago, though time hasn’t learned to crawl, just barely roll over to avoid asphyxiation. Overall, the will of the ears has learned music even in makeshift external color placed numbers. So, when there is sorrow, far echo trumpet caws scavenge from the one man room where snow never set down.


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