4559. WE ALL ARE SLIPSTREAM

WE ALL ARE SLIPSTREAM

Adjacent to some furry monster, holding scary

pillows to our face, we dream alike in a slow motion

sped up to superspeed. We watch the vital world unfurl.

All circumstances are warranted : the frieze behind the

costly museum scrim, the balloon man holding his aces

on high, Dr. Caligari and his wicked but splendid cabinet,

the lovely stepdaughter singing. These kids are nasty items,

and each one of them comes with a stick. I advertise little.

-

Up, outside, high atop the great museum wall, I see a

hawk at rest  -  or so it seems, though never are they to

be at rest  -  always at ready, for the tidy mouse, the

morsel squirrel, anything new and warm and chewy.

So to speak. The sunlight dapples the rage within that

hawk's stern gaze; nothing can be changed or saved.

-

Past all that, here on the ground, some thousand feeble

people seem sideways walking  -  to the getting to nowhere,

to the nothing at all. radios and sound effects here monsterize

the ground  -  children madly swinging, playground mothers

looking on, talking hands, holding things to their eyes and ears.