L’Imprimerie de Mickey

2.
Dancing over the click track past Clancy’s,
everything coated in a fine layer of dust.
The swamp air, the glottal river,
But if it’s okay with the Carnival Kid…
But, no, who knows what’s okay with the
Carnival Kid, that silly symphony
beaming out the rental, crumpled cyanotopes,
unsent letters, worn out ink pads. Worn out…
And so we therefore bivouac by
Arabi, and isn’t it strange,
how I open every door?
Even when there are none.
When the light eventually came in,
how little we thought of the Carnival Kid,
of what he did and where he did it?
And who he spoke to and
what came of it?
But that’s how storms work, see,
they finish brewing then the sky stays black.
Then the doors open again,
and the letters go flying,
way past bioscleave, way past
wells and pools past Neptune thru the
mirror and everything.
We hide in the waste basket
and douse the cards in ink.
Not past the symbols,
but this whole scene leads
to roadside pie
and obviated
galoshes.