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Interrupted by Hummingbirds July 29, 2013

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, Poetry, The Narrative, The Odd, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Compose your life like a prose poem suddenly interrupted by hummingbirds mistaking a woman’s perfume for wildflowers in Arles, a Scorpio moon the only excuse necessary for hallucinatory episodes at Starbucks’ counter, visualizing Cthulu in your latte foam and paralyzing the commerce of graven tablets. When confronted with a Don’t Walk sign, improvise. Sing. Tear up the book in your pocket and stuff a poem into each mail mailbox you pass. This is not chaos. This is the Coriolis force reordering helpless pedestrians into your chorus, storefronts into episodes, sparrows into characters.(Pages of illustrations). Don’t be pigeonholed into a notebook occupying a park bench. Don’t let your day be the litter of butts around an outside table. Don’t spend your nights lonely and mooning over your poetry. This is not how sonnets work. Follow a dark woman with a fistful of violets in your hand. When she confronts you, pass her the flowers, tell her she has mistaken you for a villanelle. Smile. Anything could happen, the moment you have been fomenting all day.

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