Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Dusty Bracket

Manna-King walked into the 300-second grocery store and let those eyes of his settle on the fine-mints and the rough-mints and smooth-mints all the same, for the loving-est Manna-King had his heart set on mint and there would be nothing that could dissuade.

Holy of holies,” called Manna-King, dressed in sackcloth and razor blades. “Holy of holies,” called Manna-King, looking for the mint that would suit his needs. The 300-second grocery store was clean and well-lighted, and there was a constant hum from the flourescent bulbs overhead, purring and chirping just occasionally to let folks such as Manna-King know they were there. If you do not purr and chirp occasionally there is a chance that folks will forget you are there, and you might just spirit away and dust away and fog away – spirit moves where spirit wills, and the fog and the embers and the dust and the rust and pain and the rain, well they all tell tales that Manna-King will love, placing his single, spindly index finger over those thin, dry lips, as if to say “shush.”

Shush,” said Manna-King, and a hundred thousand tongues fell silent. Fine-mints, rough-mints, and smooth-mints all perked up and slid to the forefront. Manna-King gropes with his free hand and prays for a warm, warm mint to offer itself up as a sacrificial lamb, bleating and bleeding, bleating and bleeding.

Mints all the same
sacrificial mint-dish holyland hot potato
in a corncrib dream
300-second grocery
grab it fast and tear it free, for the
captive glance and captive stance
popping mauve little pills to make the bowel stop leaking
and the head stop throbbing
and the back stop hurting
and the soul stop pounding
pounding and pounding
and pounding away
pounding at the door of the 300-second grocery store
a sacrificial lamb with a constant hum
spirit moves where spirit wills

sacrificial mint-dish holyland hot potato
in a corncrib dream

Manna-King steps lively and Manna-King treads lightly and Manna-King walks and walks and walks, for spirit moves where spirit wills until the sacrificial lamb makes you call it quits and the sackcloth and razor blades get too heavy. Manna-king stares into the mirror; Manna-King stares at a Manna-King grown tired and old.

Manna-King shapeshifts and Manna-King dreams.
Behold, I make all things new.

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