Andrew Goldfarb

Cities Under Hats

with our foreheads extending there is now room to ponder

the madmen plotting new operas to be dragged through an imaginary jungle of pomegranates and gasoline

indiscreet habits in mixed company, resulting in subtly orchestrated movements against oneself and at the mercy of three stout men in leather hats

male models drenched in lavender who leave pearlescent trails

the music of street sirens emanating from abducted automobiles, which will later find their way homes like lost kittens, only to discover that their purposes have been fulfilled by opiated laborers with vast debts

the great golden chests that crowd out old religions

myriad shades of blue paint along antique rooftops, forever obscuring a sky grown tedious and opaque with God's didactic brush

rushing streams of caffeine, devoid of boats and rife with electricity, erecting skyscrapers overnight with vital pieces missing

the vine-entwined terrace where in the course of their independent journeys two ladies met, lunched, and then parted, never to know that they shared a single undisclosed secret and could have blown away the helium balloon of guilt that shrouded their mornings

state-sanctioned diets of plantains and hydroproxyl, endorsed by celebrities generated by massive computer banks with loathsome and middling predilections unforeseen by their information technology administrators

purely fantastic window dressings inducing longings for indulgence that will go unquenched in our lifetime

the angular walk of the gray-clad specters that we left to do our dirty work

secretive winding stairwells that lack proper handrails, inviting those of us with too much time on our hands to briefly consider an invitation to mortality which we shy away from for fear of an even more interminable boredom

letters filled with unspoken sentences that go uncomposed and unsent due to the modern mistrust of American postal services in an age of irrelevant wages

and paper houses by the river banks

 

 

A. Goldfarb walks upon clouds of his own making, ready to fall at any moment. He has been published in Shattered Wig, Drivers Side Airbag, Mirage #4/Period(ical) #97 and something unpronounceable from Macedonia. His shoe size is ten, and he cares about you a great deal.

 

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