Chatterbox by Keon Wong
Endless, corner-less scripture, their cracks
bending to an exorcism of 6 plains / planes
crashing into their doomed gravity,
like a child running into a mother’s arms;
few stand above the clouds but dolls
that spill like waterfalls
in a drought, drip by drip bittersweet.
The blocks of clouds are pillars of some Olympus
they told us about. Dangling snake, the shock
that puts us to sleep like soporific ivy, white.
The windows that peer from the basement,
an intrepid flame from hell
that grips passerby into its own ordeal;
saint, women, paper planes, they all sink
to the insatiable fullness of a future too big
to swallow. So they left it alone.
Endless, corner-less scripture, the canvas holding
my memories like Rorschach’s treasure crates
as I leapt in fear to heaven and crashed
into the foot of an abandoned attic.
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