Right Thumb
I repair your guitar in a bathtub of broken glass. The high e string bends as I’ve no expert hands, everything’s slick inside the velveteen case; hollow body ready to ache, fatty frets thick enough to stop a house from falling. It’s one for the money, 2 for a long scar down the rib cage. A rock steady pulse dependent on your hand around the skinny neck. Clear the throat wounds, allow the wah-wah pedal to leap from the bridge into a sea of flashing bic lighters humming an arc of stimulated veins an octave above start. Right Index Finger Jimmied my car door by a thumbnail moon for a day job in star dark California wild green Suburus park to propagate at Vista Pointe the surf is too much of its own thing to be of interest or use telephone poles felled by the wind propped upright as candles on a cake await the next quake to test settling a tsunami warning is scheduled annually to allow low land cattle some time to adjust herons, cranes, geese flock to muck beyond cameras or spy glass. Right Middle Finger I’m stitching tie-dyed checkered flags for a new wave. Come rain or storming boots an enemy is common as snarling dogs. Friends run red light between emergencies, save our place in a line of sand bags holding the river. Comb shag carpet w/ split-level super lotto logic polish the temple floor in sun streaking amber dust slate blue canopy in swallowtail yellow let the cat paw out of Papa’s Brand New gag order and scatter feathers fine and far from the hunt. Right Ring Finger I brought my cheap suit to the launderette. Hung from my arm like a wild west scarecrow, the grey vertical threads, so chic decades ago, match my weathervane eyebrows, cuffs collect dust good as any dictionary. I remember how proud Mama was, me at the graduation lectern, ignoring my notes, riffing on a particulate tone, my pocket square arresting the audience, the phonetic spelling of God, the pleat of my corduroy rubbing Aladdin’s lamp as I spilled my guts in vitro. The dry cleaner suggests pressing, pats the pockets for a gun. Right Pinkie Finger The pinkest blossoms fall to the gray street. The sun, like a comedian, turns fun into a drought. Year in year out, commemorate lost bees, search the ice shelf for new definitions, kindling is just a word for wilderness, bears pose for selfies with salmon, drones picnic downstream a coyote claws an abandoned bus another famous hiker leaves a notebook or a watch on a teeter totter of stones in full view of an arsonist making bad decisions. Try explaining New Year’s to a washed out bridge, use the twisted metal rails to spell check Celsius. An emergency phone number sputters, my breath on hold music is worth a bird in hand. Find more from Will here: @scmit_will https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/603996 http://www.amazon.com/Jesus-Inside-Prison-Ministers-Training/dp/194173362X/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1451584491&sr=8-2&keywords=A+Prison+Minister%27s+Memoir
Fevers of the Mind 