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Another Byzantine Icon
Judging from the sad hyper elongated frowny faces,
I’d say there’s a certain catty air about the horn these days.
It’s not just that no one wants to raise hairs about painting,
or that no one grinds teeth at the marble zigzags outside corporate
offices. Not even the predictability of gold leaf in hairdos riles.
But snail one iamb about lumps or philology & the market
wells up, snot-ragging in teary outrages. There isn’t a goat
who doesn’t gnaw on his own belles now & then. The goose
farm is full of waddlers intent to paddle rice paddy furrows.
But in a dangle, one’s got to be as unknottingly precise as that
knot cutter Damocles who bettered puzzle solving with no inclination
towards wit. He’s not worried about healing the paralytic.
So no more swoopy bows, no more pleading knee rides.
We get lumps when we show up, & head measured when we
don’t. It’s the square & round of it. No weaning, or surgical
removal of the tear duct can make it any more inconsequential.
Don’t claw about it. Just paint this up & stab it with a chisel.
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