Matvei Yankelevich |
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Chris R. A Typewriter Portrait Marooned on the uninhabited island of Boston, well, near there, surrounded by tuna swimming in cans Mr. Rizzo thought twice about returning to that same spot where he was standing already, cherubs flying in pitchers of goldfish, glass vases The reporter on his belt buckle asks: what makes you quiver Mr. Rizzo, 9am. 9pm. 29pm. Islands? And the square root of a prime number, being prime, was one and the same. collar afloat on blue water, snug in the commonplaces of sneaker-like shoes of prowess (you know the kind— winged), like a white towel that flares up in the darkness of the inside of a mechanism so dark it is fathoms deep in ink, maroon ink, a veritable ink- well around the eyes, this portrait – said the reporter – – with a grin upside down – hangs on a wire. ** Victor M. A Typewriter Portrait Victor, your pants are on. They’re blue jeans, just like a better day It’s been so long since you were a kid, now you are a pro I had this notion like shampoo lather the mail works, thank god and your fingers are touchstones solved puzzles are a drag if Yale was another planet it would have meant more kicks for you how often do you have to shave nowadays when I knew you last you were pretty much the same, a sign of strong backbone in your retroactive smile this day is loud white and it starts right out like a starched white shirt under which is a person of many little dreams in the potholes of historic New York you’ve been walking in the rain may your pockets be full of postcards when the subway rolls over and crests like a wave on the hour hand. |
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