HOMEPAGE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Breadcrumbs

The parade was very satirical and the cow was most attentive.  I played the landlord, with a brick name that failed to hide the mansion.  The parade was late, in fact, except for one of my own boots and a paint-can.  I dread the excitement of the living opera, but I love the temporarily shuttered opera, or at least the necessary lighting to paint it, the pretext for the blues being dropped, and a word to speak to be excused.  I fail to detect clouds, but I found the right door for the autumn comedians.  Sorry to go on.  The words were all in a heap, with the result that the other house was delayed.

This parade proceeds very haphazardly, and will cow us most whenever I remember the corral with fine brick dust that seemed to fill the space the crew was working in, all except in one place: My pocket.  Boots under a table can signify dread or excitement, writes the horse-opera expert.  I required the house shuttered completely, or the least openings necessary.  Better to seal it on pretext of the light being fierce, and no word, than speak and be what I feared to describe.  Clouds disperse, I test the trap-door, and the unconscious comedians start to play on everyone's words.  After all that, a struggle with no result makes the old house feel delayed.

This adventure proceeds further, haphazardly.  It will let us sleep whenever inconvenient.  Remember to corral some fine clothes.  Dust storms seemed likely.  Fill in space our crew needs, working with all speed in any place available.  Pocket trinkets under the table.  Contracts signify circumspection, or humanity writes in horse-laughs, expert proofs required to house us.  Completely outside the hidden openings, a better wax seal holds on lids of jars, light but fierce, and no worse than ever.  And consider what was feared once; describe wanderings, disperse breadcrumbs, test and trap insects, and go unconscious.  Don't start the play until everyone's looked after, and that last struggle disappears.  No shoe makes tired old legs feel justified.

Thrilling adventure goes further if it is let to sleep occasionally.  Inconvenient business, to celebrate some way.  Clothes during storms most likely increase in weight.  Our food needs, dealt with, hardly speed up any more.  Available as trinkets that the bureau contracts for, circumspection about humanity expressed in embroidery laughs at proofs intended to advise us from outside.  I've hidden where a mystic wax figure holds court.  Lids proposed jars tighten, but forgot, and perhaps worse, didn't ever really consider.  I was thankful once my wanderings resumed, breadcrumbs eaten, and friendly insects that go chirp don't feed the birds until tomorrow.  Looked around, and at last, gloom disappears.  My shoe is tired, my legs are justified.

 

 

 

[Glenn R. Frantz is a native of southeastern Pennsylvania.  His poetry has appeared in such publications as Arsenic Lobster, ditch, gobbet, Stride, Sawbuck, and Otoliths.]

 

 

Copyright © 2012 by Glenn R. Frantz, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.