this little piggie when in france found its face, and the blue of the burble
and the blank slate. this little piggie when in rome stood apart from the fall
of the empire and the back slatted painting of roofs - a space between fingers
so distressed and almost. this little piggie when in training learned the middle
of the tracks is the safest place to duck in avoidance of train cars passing
as they grind their wheels to spark and stop.
if this is your bag on the bluest of blue benches, please leave a message
we will fail to grant all your wishes.
i’ve taken to coughing beneath my microscope and to letting the automatic
beauty machine leave messages in the rain to someone else - hair a net of
wetting. you can catch cold really easily if you know where to pack your books,
to pick your boots up from the copier. the paste on the wall is a copy. the copy
in your college roomate’s attic is also a copy and the thing behind the thing’s
behind is always so humane. this little piggie is still waiting for the huff and the puff
but he really trusts in brick. his truck is rusting somewhere out in the sticks
and he dreams of the day when his bench will spray coordinates for others like
a field of stars to follow.