WHAT'S NEW

A tough old bird brought to her knees by

a four year old who learned to share in pre-

kindergarten with crayoned paper finger-up-the-nose-

swap-and-eat-hands-in-crotch-can't-reach-the-water-

fountain-one with fabulous etiquette covering the

four going on fifteen virus spewing little mouth with

precious pudgy little digits opened wide to escaping

germs, worms and airbornes seeking bigger and

diverse playgrounds. " I won't give you my very

bad cold, Aunt Connie, cough cough covered kicking

the back of the car seat in the confined space of

horse and buggy on rubber made virus' mutating

in the invisibility of smoke and ash inhale microbes

skittering to innerspace of the inner sanctum robed

as orphans looking for a home but are toy transformers

wanting to play with the Raven penned by Poe long

ago, a beating heart short a body visualized by

Vincent Price tubed presence as his enunciation

gave dimension to Poe's wordlife as the wagon hearse

lurched and creaked over cobblestone through the hand

thrown pot lined streets racing from the melting wax

spewing the living dead into hot soup served up with

oyster crackers and candlelight wanting Ambrosia

to massage his body beneath the caned chair resting

on the polar bear rug as the jewelled glass eye took

the secrets entered there and stole off into the

northern lights of a northern night seeking whip

cream and a cherry but the bus was not running that

late so I lay down on the splintery bench at the train

station and sucked down the blaack thick smoke trailing

the beast ironing up the tracks like my mom used to

do on the board that was taller than me in a house I can't remember with a green apple tree in the yard that

rained green missiles when Bobby shook and

ordered from the top as I ducked and bobbed as he

got his when he jumped down and landed on some

old rusty nail pierced right through his boot

impaling him there in some other's front yard.

c2008 constance pavliska

WORK IN PROGRESS

September 7, 2008 IN THE WORKS The Bone Child Project
(excerpt from the Bone Child Writings)
He’s declaring dollars in sign
signifying a rusted Chevy van
rocking wheels in neon flowers
growing in metal crevices
and spilling seeds all over Johnny’s
trees clearing cut into hills
filling holy landscape on pock-marked teens
flipping the two fingered salute
that pissed off politicians
standing on street corners
wearing heels and red garters
and hosiery stretching out from gutters
splattering the bone child.
as I ask “what smell makes that sound?”
in-between spaces undeciding
here and wanting there to be a stand
taken on the blurred shadow cast
of the play that was the longest
running off Broadway and beside Park
placed in a thimble with a silver spoon
feeding tubes of damaged brains
counting backwards from one hundred
seeking ground zero minutes and minutiae
text-messaging on Tom’s Thumb
where plums prune the shrubbery
guarding the nursing home
as the wrinkles rest and flesh
falls from the broken bone child.
and I ask, “How young is the rain?”
feeding hosta leaves sheltering ants
marching in rhythm to Van gogh’s
slabbed ear bandaged and challenging
oil pigmented skin in turpentine
washing down city streets
painting rats in cadmium red
and titanium whiting out
correcting incorrection by Marvin
talking back to the movie
screening mosquitoes from the porch
surrounding the house roofed in hip
fractured by rubber tipped canes
candy coated at the North Pole
sliding down myth and might
re-remember overdose in hairy nostrils
sweating up torn shirts and shorts
grinning pink bottoms
peering through the haze
where the Swamp Thing lives
mucking puddles of puking
putrid things wrenched from the light
peeled from its adhesive back
sticking it to the man
grasping the gold cup.

To contact this artist please click here: Constance Pavliska

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