Subliminal Message
The left hand turns the key, unattached, artfully. The other sits in the pocket rubbing coins. Behind, the universe is streaming in, unpacked in all that matter. The mice are playing in the larder, searching for wholegrain flour, the cat is sniffing something like a breeze. Multiple moons cast their wary glances, autumn fields are ripe in berries. The bear ambles along as is his lot on a Thursday night. Each instant is a reality for him, each past, nothing more than a dream; mostly it’s the shrill sound of the gray tree frog that stirs him—oh, but nothing can keep him from the garbage, the discarded nappies, a scratching of leftover Andouille, and all the plastics in their glossy underbellies. Once the corn has been reaped, then the sun, then when the fields are bare and unbearable lightness rises from those leftover, it’s as if a frozen shadow sweeps across the earth, and all that is left is sleep.
Marc Vincenz is and Anglo-Swiss-American poet, fiction writer, translator, editor and artist. He has published over 30 books of poetry, fiction and translation. His work has been published in The Nation, Ploughshares, Raritan, Colorado Review, World Literature Today and The Los Angeles Review of Books. He is publisher and editor of MadHat Press and publisher of New American Writing.