Page 77 - Jack Foley | The true litterateur
P. 77

HEALING, LOOKING INTO EYES




               I miss you like the bowl of oatmeal left out in the rain and eaten by
               wolves.

               I miss you like the angel who missed the diamond-studded pole in the
               middle of
                          downtown Dallas.
               I miss you like the yellow-tailed bird in the outskirts of Detroit.

               I miss you like the disease of overeating.
               I miss you like the baseball of malnutrition misses the bat of
               individuality.
               I miss you like the fallen angel risen up only to discover that he is

               tangled in the barbed
                          wire of a Minneapolis telephone line.
               I miss you like the penis of downtown Los Angeles.
               I miss you like the statue of the Virgin Mary defaced by vandals in

               Mer-St.-Jean.
               I miss you like the ocean of Guadalupe and the sea of Carmen
               Miranda.

               I miss you like the deaf uncle of a Samothrace in over-populous Pebble
               Beach.
               I miss you like the Catholic priest secretly wearing a bikini under his
               bicycle pumps.
               I miss you like the mother of Martin Scorsese as she tells him that he

               is in fact Armenian.
               I miss you like mumps and mumble-de-peg.
               I miss you like snowbush and sneezewort.

               I miss you like snatch block (which is “a fairlead having the form of a
               block that can be
                          opened to receive the bight of a rope at any point along its
               length”)
               I miss you like the mountains of Fresno and the clouds of Aix-la-

               Chapelle as they extend  a         welcoming hand to Christ the
               Redeemer, who has decided to move to California.
               I miss you like the Virgins who haunt the telephone wires in which the

               angel, discouraged,          has fallen into troubled sleep.
               I miss you like troubled sleep.           77
                                                                                          Litterateur
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