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Odds Lent Bare
John Godfrey
Everywhere are people created by the walls they steal from to have
vivid colors under their skins. The sky in which they mingle in the
middle of night deadens the ears of loved ones so that the songs, the
million songs of birth, are weeping to each other. They overpower the
resources of careless progenitors. In parts of the world where camels
are seen in lines that connect star to star, blood sets until solid on
the teeth of slowly asphyxiating fish. There is no one able to maintain
the membranes that keep ordinary gases in the regions where women can
transfer them to men in actions of the flesh that include bathing
together. Heavy naked feet covered with gelatins press against ones of
unequal size. They deliver force to elements that must remain
incomplete for night to have its dark irregular fruit.
The child of many colors is waiting to hear coins fall into a hidden
cup. From the innermost garment she wears she hears the ocean claim
immense wealth. If she breathes any more dust she will remember the
smells of freshly paved pastures. In dreams she identifies every kind
of black rose mentioned in legends of her tribe. Despite this, there is
no question posed by the disintegration of her skin.
In a different hour the light from the sky spun around and left heat
splattered all over the shaft of its drill. A hypnotist leaves the
table by the street satisfied with the tremor she has inspired in her
client's hand. Sawdust left in the gutter out front sops up drool that
lubricates a human howl. She cannot examine glass by rubbing fine
particles of it into her chosen one. Uttering multiples of seven is her
only aid.
Do I have stone where you have scar? Arrows indicate the direction in
which to press the nose into her hands. No one expects work to result
from inchoate feeling yet selects tools to wear close to the soul. I
doubt that something so marine as the soul can stop her from wandering
into the factory. The river goes in one end and when it comes out the
other it doubles as death.
The beginning was brother to me. Wealth is so small and of so many
colors it will accumulate whatever I do without her. Every few meters,
where the sidewalk sinks, cavities have their way with products of the
deed. One side of a tree demonstrates a less desirable pathway, namely
that of ugliness. The road reaches up and then falls back exhausted
with such imperfect shadows.
It is worth it to be master of so much memory. Dragging an unwholesome
planet behind gives flight the power ascribed to heartless gods. The
mood is elation without prospects. Even when my hand is touching her
neck there's a physical pause between skin and skin, and then it
happens again.
lingo 4
 Books in print by John Godfrey
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