boy meets girl,passions kiss,dynasty
FORM: NOVEL in 6 words
raging wind white horses high tide
NOTE: A novel in 6 words after Hemingway
I should like to think that some spark of a watcher
slips away at night to observe our crazy dreams.
Some part of the self attached only to the whirring brain
by umbilical coils of recognition
of what we are when the brain rambles
and stutters along all by itself.
I should like to be outside
watching that drunken twirling sailor
totter and flop through
its flabbergasting counter-realities,
un-meshed moving parts that demand to be
decoded into loosely knit prophesy
or the dyslexic fortune-telling
of all kinds of flash-fiction.
Perhaps better though to leave the brain alone
allow it space to exhaust its madcap maladies,
while the stars call us out to be
what a brain can never be or see.
To be then, an awareness of that greater part of self
watching the brains mechanical spinning-top
dream itself into realms of evermore loopy unlikeliness,
while we explore a self-lit luminous universe
beyond the ken of the brain-locked sleep
of mice and men.
DEAR JOHN
his yellow ribbon-in post restante*
*service where the post office holds the mail until the recipient calls for it.
‘Old Spice’ and wet grass carry years
of understanding between us.
What I wear and you gather into you,
become a language neither of us know,
but comprehend in mouse-tracks of deduction.
You read grease and engine oil, as if grease and engine oil
were two parts of a book left out in the wet,
a chemical patois revealed by an inborn knowledge
of petroleum pipes, and the long-distance howls
of Alaskan wolves.
If I break wind, you run to me, body rapt and heeding,
every hair translating a smudged paragraph or two into
volumes of memory.
Rubbernecking my attention with a fixed gaze,
(No, Timmy has not fallen down an abandoned mine shaft),
you are just staring at my next question,
willing to jaw with more whiffs of intimacy.
Tales of muddy boots, the flash-fiction of urine trails,
(hers and her canine buddies, not mine),
the breezy gossip of each rabbit hole.
A jargon of us both
surfacing in her millpond eyes,
idioms cresting now on her black nose,
a cloddish lingo,
but it outruns anything that could be said.
News fresh right here with flash fiction,
Opt hundred words for less syncs rank;
Work craft most clear and hurl action.
Open minds think to fill the blanks,
Use suggestion to sketch not add;
Rouse reading art to make the cut.
Give true quotient to flush lame fad,
Linger brief start to allude putt;
Imagine more but write with less,
Mutter quickly the tale you flesh;
Pique but don't pour that complete trash,
Speak now swiftly in a brief dash;
Evoke rude shock in yarn that sums,
See mind take stock where endings come.
Leon Enriquez
08 July 2015
Singapore
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