Philip Byron Oakes
grief of long coats skating to the
tint of bruises, on the breast of a
failed philanthropist. Murmur's
last legs as they wade the Ganges.
Not tall, stippled. Rubicund, but
no fire engine. A lapse in the
grandeur of night's grip allotted
a radius of elbows, highlighting
the shortcomings of giants in the
arena of spaces to crawl. The
aftermath of effervescence. A
connection to the freckles of the
hoi polloi. A ballyhoo of trombones,
or else a kiss on the cheek gone
awry to seek its fortune. A place,
where the tallest of the dwarves
make the technocrats feel welcome,
where even the realists lose count
of the heartstring theories.
Reconnoitering a foot in the grave
consequences afforded winter wear.
A favorite color of the unconscious.
Before the dawn, the apple, the
thorn. Posting bulletins on the
sleeves of forget-me-nots, fading
to the beneficence of black.
Ergonomic small talk, painting
miniatures by charlatan light.