bingo;

There are three puzzle pieces I can’t

seem to find the fitting for.  Bingo

may have been some guy’s name,

but bingo is also what I aim for when

I dice up dreams past their decimal

points.  I called out past pressure,

told it that it made the room seem

bigger and that I stuck it in the verse

of that one song with the French

words for “threesome.”

­

It told me, “Atlas has nothing on

you—the one that holds a universe

in his mind atop that world on his

shoulders.”  I was immediately

reminded of how much time I spend

protesting all of this to no one.

­

Take the droning engine and bury it

with fresh sod and new seed, throw

the sprinkler on for 20 minutes every

three hours until the sun swan dives,

and all we’re left with is stars and the

swaddling heat of summer.  There’s a

metaphor here I always miss:

disappear and come back better.

­

It’s too Svengali for me in a weird way.

And too contrived.

I’ll return, in some way someday,

after I forget about that engine, still

droning.  It resembles a tiny foam ball,

balanced tightly between shoulder

blades.