an old balloon

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
we make history

Submitted: May 21, 2013

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Submitted: May 21, 2013

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there's an old god on screen

shortly named after some hideous

thing that died and we took apart.

some parts eaten and others burned and others worn to the point of

antifashion and some revered within screams of idolatry and some

made into antibodies and some molded into small-scale weapons for

sneaking new deaths, but all on account of this one body.

the least remaining parts shoved under stones.


the god, puffed fat on helium and tied to a mountain, was powerfully

immeasurably nonspecific, nodded or shook 'no' in most cases to mean

life or death or infrastructure changes on a sweeter or sourer wind.

in this way he was always perfectly unquestionable and intentionless,

his finger-wagging never happened but it did if you asked someone else.

unfortunately, helium wears quite thin and the god wizens to a walnut

which generally heralds apocalypse, renaissance, regime-change

or an immense pop of time suddenly realized.

someone is smacked for forgetting to change the bulb, lights go on, disaster is complacent and unmarked.


well, the god's mountain is stripmined or otherwise undone like

a child through layercake sometime later, and the god flattens out a bit,

bobbing gently along the ground hoping to be put out by a blade of grass

or a bit of sharp rubbish, but it's also likely he'd be stomped.

in any event, he whooshes down a grate, through sediment and muck, really vacationing nicely during centuries more sophisticated in their illness and more rudimentary in their cures.


one day someone (also on vacation) uncovers him bathing on a ruddy beach

and someone is smacked for failing to appreciate his importance

(historically and spiritually) and how worthy

of dissection, parade, carbon dating, and criticism he might be,

and has him refrigerated

for the sake of honor and safe-keeping.


the other day i visited him for the first time.

sadly we are out of mountains but he was placed on the fourth floor

and nicely facing the window so he might keep tabs.

he looks quaint in his crystalline-cube glinting rainbows,

much like he did in his years of weather-confusing,

so you have to squint

to see him proper but carefully not to lean on the glass or leave fingermarks

that might distort him further. he's got no complaints.

he had a function no one served and no one blamed, all pity and fear and slowly

leaking innocuous gas so the ecstatic banners that flap his rediscovered visage calls him a treasure.

all in all not bad.


as for me, without any plaster or softening gas my head is a sort of angular nubby concrete blob stabbed by an aluminum pike. in fact, by inserting my head into the ground

and letting the latter end of my body serve as a 'yield' or 'stop' i'd likely be about

23% more useful than i am now and would at least warrant a fiberglass case on the first floor.

 


© Copyright 2019 Caroline Michaud. All rights reserved.

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