Horizontal Elevator Rain

Horizontal Elevator Rain
by David Grove
She smoked her eyelash on grasshopperback, it rotted in a silo by the white dwarf and hurled a vulture against the icebox after the spinnaker had ceased to keen. Sawhorses and law courses shrank to the size of planets, the sumo motes the dead give away. She spelunked the coyote skull atop the lucent sousaphone, eyesocket feeding frenzy, cromlech of umbrellas. A tuft of exit ramps and bluebells exuding hooey into 60-watt poolballs and dive-bombing dives from a submarine. The Model T nightmared of a labyrinthine dumbwaiter, it slashed the comet’s train, it smashed the gumball machine full of severed heads. The grenade pinhole was spackled and all the immaculate cesspools in the Podunk-centric mind were chucked into the dump-fires dotting the warscape in the horizontal elevator rain whose prehistoric raptors were clouds pulled over for driving while white. The tiara drowsed on a hopscotch square, the blacktop sandwich intertwined with the filigree after the platinum opera megastars swam to their spawning grounds in a weird fifth-dimensional zone and the floaters in my eye laced my sneakers, yaks tattooing maggots on everything except the squid-ink zamboni that flattened the chaingang of reveries after my near-fetched sybaritic swizzlestick droshky’d up the pretzeled stairway in the horizontal elevator rain whose labia quiver like speedometer needles. I have all her silences on compact buttonhole. Expunge the after-image by kissing it with a waistpaper coffin whose ghostships ply a rearview mirror reflecting keyhole tribadism.
dear blitzcraig,
okay, so you’re pretty handy with
a switchblade. you’ve carved wooden
crucifixes that rival montanes. and
okay, the french government knighted
you chevalier of arts and letters.
but what have you done with your
switchblade lately? other than make
peanut butter and jellyfish sandwiches?
and do you suffer any pangs of conscience
over your unregenerate state? have you
ever strived to develop your bodhicitta,
to cultivate a benevolent soul? take
my advice, b.: stand aloof from the
festering wound of american society;
be not tainted by its crass materialism.
hie you to a place of spiritual enlightenment–
a sylvan glen, for example–and contemplate
the ineffable mystery of god.
i’m praying for your reformation, believe me.
your asthma inhaler,
mona lott