| Thunder Sandwich #17
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 dweeb by jeff filipski |
| A Matinee Only when it is late-- too late--and the act itself is no more than a memory, a shadowy trestle on the whistlestop tour of the skin, is a kiss its own destination, fleetingly, with a very large number of ports of call. Two Pears" Very plainly pears probably Bartlett's my grandmother painted after Alzheimer's claimed what was left of the once bright mind, my mother told me about-- and which I never knew. A few small things like this, no bigger than your average paperback or human face, are all that remain. A few things. Like that rumpled, bleary photo of a nude Bo Derrick that I kept stashed inside a panel, behind some water pipes. I had to unscrew it in order to get at it, to get at myself. Things. Like the kind, cracked face she wore when she smiled that smile which said, "I love you." And I was terrified of. Simple, delicate pears rendered thick and childlike in heavy oils, the steep ridges of the oils like a topoghraphic map of Afghanistan, drawn to scale; or a miniature Tibet, in bas-relief. Where the oils pool in valleys of shadow, to gather in glacial crevasses.... Parcels, things, pasteboards on which the whole of existence (hers, at least) could be summed up: in a word, in a manner of speaking, in a brushstroke. |
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| ISSN: 1534-4037 |
Edited by Jim Chandler & Haze McElhenny
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