Ephram Pratt Remembers Walking through the Wall
Evening was when he
walked through the wall
into the tiny space
holding only air
and a jaundiced victim,
a toothless manifesto
dialed by the rodents
and residents
lining Victim Road,
silent as the hurricane
hurrying through
the glass bottomed boat.
Cross it with a Sunday brunch
held in the chapel
just below the North Lake,
the one filled with miracles
and aberrant bass
falling asleep on currents
running deep into the night,
deep as the silence
read into the decree
overturned
by a voice vote
of all the senators present.
Ephram Pratt Urges the Priests to Succumb
Pungent as rosemary
were the rocks & riddles
found in the pungent
delicacies arranged
in silence
along the table—
no know knows why,
only that the timber
of the gelatinous
wafers used by the priests
were somewhat unusual,
and that they swam
in liquid
dripping from the
maple trees in the yard.
Pick the apples
from the other trees
and let the villagers
pick thistles from their teeth,
from their fingers
and from the thorny
epistles written in large letters
on the water towers
lining the Great River.
Ephram Pratt Enjoins the Absurdity of Crossbows
Entering into silence
like dried etchings
devoid of color
or an effusion of
devilish warnings,
signaling the end
of a Spanish surrealism,
known to replace
logic or ingelligencia,
let it creep into
an afternoon of absurdity,
strengthened and
lengthened by soft butter,
by soft plastic
songs of irreplaceability
known for the nudging
necessary to eclipse
banging the drum slowly,
walking on water,
or replacing raspberries
with iconic crossbows,
ablaze in an arid silence.
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