The Descent of Betty Lou Oliver

Posted by Erik Moshe on Friday, March 1, 2013 Under: Poetry


The descent of Betty Lou Oliver was like Dominique Strauss-Kahn’s career with the World Bank, only worse, she fell worse, much worse, like a square sack of bricks inside of a weightless rubix cube sent careening down a shaft. Lucifer falling through a trapdoor shares companions with this bold statement of gravity and cable wires and elevator textiles, the light above a blonde cornea, her, the woman in the doorway of a mountain trapped succulent channeling panicked sounds of a dockyard while incompetent heart beats fall with the tempered anthem; the sounds of Ooh’s and Ankh.

Elusive looping arches invoking Dante’s Inferno with an arctic chill. Lucidity. She took a leap of faith even though she was sparingly Sephardic, gone on a gravity safari on an isle plain where psychedelics come to meet with white flip flops and Hawaiian festival caps. Oh, the locomotion of the Russian Bloc Party had communes crushed under the dust of seventy floors, sevenfold. Watch the blue, grim 3D blueprints in 2D acrylics with some degree in downtown night air. Hangouts on balconies mean frozen in time commoners teeter between this world and the former world. Dartanion’s sword is the mobius strip theory, zip-winding in circular motion while treating quasars like pesky leeches with their inky prickles so far up your neck you’d wish your invertebrate was made of solid soul compost, unable to be entangled by the throes of Thoreau’s least favorite house pets. Brick fireplaces coal soot, are home to old leather boots. Skyline careers tend to take the wrong elevator, ash-ifying business suits. The collapse of a paperwork pyramid, total recall whereby the automatons shovel office sized stacks of historical revenue from one building to another as the blocks topple resignedly.

The lines that say X are the ones that require signatures but the lines that require signatures are full of disgruntled workers who’d much rather form a tetrahedron signifying rebellion in this mad world so segregated by silver lined clouds and half glassfuls when we aren’t even that thirsty to begin with. Old fashioned molecules accomplish old fashioned birthrights. It’s an Anton Chekhov world, a world in the white widow’s rear view sights where reality television isn’t even a blip on the screen yet. Frog eyed red lipstick is the dossier of choice in the bulletin for beautiful causes. Causality. A result of the kissed envelope being sucked up the tube and spat back out into a pile of fresh packages neatly labeled with nativity’s last name. The god-forsaken taken breath when the equations left on a napkin in a penthouse restaurant add up to the armpit measurements of the Vitruvian man. The tendons used to lift, the neglected anatomy from a military standpoint. False bio-qualifications understood as the basis for the continuity of ‘blame the government for anything’ cases. Fall for that, and you may get a raise.

The Thirteenth Floor was a terrible movie. Blind hermits shouldn’t watch it. If I was a window on any side of that floor, I would self implode into a zillion tiny glass fragments and fall laughing with joyous relief to the lighted city streets below.

In : Poetry 



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