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(an acaudal sestina about krazy kat)

The ziggurat Zabbuto boasts a brick of someteen thousand years—

but call that brick no special case—for someday's sun will melt it to a "teapot."

And on the sun today a howdah. And overneath three brickbats fly.

And windy clockfaced mesas running redward back as rust.

Atop Zabbuto's dais suns and stirs a "Kat" whose hardy noggin waits.

She knows what love is—strokes her cornered basking-bed of brick.

So old, the ruddy ventricles of every fresh-baked brick—

so ancient, all us players—all us pieces—dizzy with the blowing years—

but creases never come a-crossing kat-cheeks, cause she cannot learn to wait.

To stir the sun she plinks a raga on a banjo-bodied "gourd,"

and wizened tumbleweeds beneath her spin in puffing tufts of rust—

you see them, "Mouse"—they jounce and tango—someday they will fly.

As sure as every yearning brick you heft awaits its flight—

or sure as one may trust a cactoid exegesis on the hearts of bricks—

on high she pines for hurled kisses, loving not to sit and rust—

we pieces all—o flowerpot o jadeplant, sodaflat, sharp notes, blown years—

all we crave's to shimmy, to shimmer forever—one soul there be—one "soul"

thereby—one soul. O ancient "Mouse," you're young as she—don't wait.

For sometimes kats—like suns you meet—will rise for lack of wait.

Observe her tilt a soda-straw toward that lone blue-bottle fly—

she puffs the yellow mesa wind to tickle 'cross its "wings"—

and no more bored, our "Kat" pursues the calliphore down terraced brick.

She'd never think to stay—but wandering, might wait for you a someteen years.

The secret bakes beneath the open sun—nothing rusts but rust.

O snatch thine geriatric ammunition, "Mouse"—its silty billow isn't really rust—

as teetering Zabbuto shimmers to a stand of pines without its keystone's weight.

And crouch behind my jangle-needled trunk, so high with years,

and fondle frantic fingerfuls of firmly fired fill until the feline frolics forth—fire! full fly!

"Kat's" cloudsome cranium caressed by ever-most heartfelt of sailing bricks!

O dented temples, "Mouse," o sodapop and holy Swiss—o names of "love."

But lo! My newly-shooted secondary trunk conceals "Pupp"—that kop whose "love"

for justice, quietude and Kat compels him pound you off to rust—

o Mouse, you'll fume, enjailed in a seamless stately oubliette of brick.

But sure as moons turn blue—or gorganzolas gibbous—freedom's no long wait.

His kop heart's newsprint-soft—he'll tip a sentimental hanky as you fly.

Someday I'll sprout a hand—I'll toss confetti in the blowing years.




Martin Hazelbower lives in Victoria, Canada. He wants to be a writer when he grows up.
Current Issue
17 Jan 2022

The land burns so hot and high tonight that Let can see its orange glow even from the heart of The City of Birds. It burns so thick she can taste the whole year’s growth of leaves and branches on her lips. It burns so fast she can almost hear the deer and cottontails scream as flames outrun them and devour them whole.
I writhe in bed with fever, chills, chatters and shivers. The near becomes far as the far comes close.
No one gets married before going to space.
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