Kristi Maxwell



Combs


Amidst what classifies the bag as crammed, hair implements take a little space that constitutes a world for them to know through their showing up there.

I bask.

My hair tarries high as a barometer that measures my basking.

I bask in this life this only life I have unless only is not the life-slot that takes my token in.

Someone pointed out I stole his brush several years after I stole it.

This knack for taking things like brushes out of homes is mine.

Because there is a certain, determined amount of pride imbedded in mine, I bask in that knack for mining things like brushes out of homes.

Intermingling is not something the language realm and the physical realm always do.

Like wallflowers at the same party, off somewhere fondling a hair implement such as an elastic band, they are not always mingling.

A public restroom with what looks like a dresser that belongs in a private space has on that dresser a vase of combs that are implied to be complimentary, given their plastic nature and the name of the bar of which the public restroom is part imprinted in white on each of the green combs.

I bask when I snatch one as I wade into a stall.

Some plastic can heal itself.

Some plasma-savvy can't.

The number of bad situations one can imagine in which the goodness of a certain element enters into any number of those situations determines profitability of invention.

If invention is the scene invented by the imagination for the highlighting of goodness or if invention is the object in need of its goodness highlighted fluctuates.

I bask in this fluctuation as if this fluctuation were invented for my basking.

Basted by basking, I verb, and that verb fills itself with the action known as basking.

A comb's version of basking is hair.

My comb hairs when I comb hairs with it, which I often do within a stall, and I confess my favorite stall in the public bathroom with the dresser on which sits a vase of free combs is the handicapped stall because it's on a wall all its own so that if the stalls had no doors or if the stalls each had their doors flung open, the stall I prefer would be maestro to the other stalls, across from it.

Preference happens. Like and unlike growth of hair.

If choice quits preference, we might call that particular choice hairless.

We might not.

One of us might.

It is a choice we will make, each having inherently to do with language.

It is a choice we will each make—having, inherently.

Between my scalp via my hair and my lungs via my mouth a hierarchy has snuck, and I know this because of what I'll take from the sidewalk to appease each.

Not a perfectly unbroken comb, no teeth dulled or snapped or chipped.

What happens outweighs the amount of its happening.

In the hierarchy between my scalp via my hair and my lungs via my mouth, there are two alternatives: that in which the scalp's denial is a matter of respecting the scalp is one.

Truly I am just less taken in by its whims of feigned desperation.

Whims of feigned desperation bask in my taking in of them.

I bask in taking them in.

 

 

 

 

My Cost,


as I've decided to

address you, before the bovine

lullaby begins. I drank milk during the writing of,

as I wrote it, so there's that

kind of gleam. Two new

muscles show in my arm. A case my upper

arm displays of muscles new

to me, but old to lifting. Line

with a sole cursive letter with

multiple humps. What can we catch like this

nothing? With hooks diluted

of shine by small rusts?

I tire as tall things their

indulgence of hangings. This

chair fashioned, this stoop. This sweeping of

the stoop for the dropping. The only

note the fan's achieved is

whirr, but don't chide, but

facilitate the fan with wind chimes it can

whirr through: we're, we're. The two

of them a we, a wee, a giddy-up.

 

*

 

 

 

The gangly noon fondles the spade, and I've still

not found the shawl. To draw out the crash I need

five colors in marker-form and the sleek

dormitories of my fingers for shaping

to lean from. The fist-char

charges through this accumulation we've laid over

the towel-rack over the panoramic

tiles. It is not a question. Pasta last then the passing

out like larger tiles in a larger room.

 

*

 

 

 

And the crosshatch reasons for attachment, and one of us

must water before we test, one of us must

hands under it. Spackling made 

ache of the egg without outing the egg as art, true or

and I always want to say falsetto to sing it true in falsetto.

A shin kick won't wrench my standing

for this: truth reared in some

intolerant bowels. Were I made to

eat a hoof. Were we made with heft that could

take on the meanest jaw, then might

we asunder. On the bed all day today, and the bed

boogies away from Earth to get a different

calendar. One bed day is. Two bed days

is my dorsal fin that divides

water to incidence. We were in.

 

*

 

 

 

bovine lullaby

 

Marred purr of the pleasure cat, catch me a pleasure with a tael-width tail.

Obligatory purr of the pleasure cat, filch me a flushed pleasure with pails and which pales—.

Satiated purr of the pleasure cat, crouch on a me a pleasure me-sized.

Exalted purr of the pleasure cat, pickle me sweet pleasures for sure and for sating.

I'll continue my asking until.

Mandatory purse of leisure, innocuous purse of leisure, satiated purse of leisure, extrapolated purse of leisure, what won't you?

 

*

 

 

 

When I

said deliver

me I

meant deliver as

over the

falls a man

stuffed crate

 

 

 

 

Mined

it was that old mass yearning for a likeness in all things that troubled


I miss my guess—the lungs
were placed in water, sinking, and while the one he drove was winter, the wonder and the thrill. Out of the tail of his eye, whenever he is. Her jaw became a trifle set; in this special way it is of the earth's earthy. She bruised under her heel the scaly head of this dark suspicion—a face divided into three grim panels by gutters numbered two. There were phases of this thing: "his gray" felt "shoes" [and so the shoes were colored]. Took his eye: a felon little more than a compound with a long prayer and by the wife.

 

 

 

a very minor department of this


For they would nudge one another, true to the standard or to type, he felt himself of labor, a silly who. Instead of brighter because of this. It was plainly necessary—the thing marvelous-marvelous. A joy-night supper. They is some young overhead on this night, refined—the compliment stuck still moods. Blacked up, very little, I was all in. But the jaw itself, care-stamped with the privilege of two others. Dark vignette of wood she was not. He liked and he did not like this exact request of the very large concern he was seeking full cousin to. Rattle and clatter of ratchet arms armed with taking. With this mistering, some character-building plan. She merely beamed a fatty beam with the soft needles so long climbing up to it.

 

 

 

that which is the inheritance


A third hymn was indulged in—a somewhat more lengthy but no less nondescript highway. He never had had. One who fingers savagely at a material knot and yet cannot undo it. In disassociating God from harm and error and misery, the wiseacre who makes money make things go. This would sear. The very teeth of a grave. None of the compulsion of the practical, just a fairly representative scene. But this other black barrier he himself had built! To himself adding: "Had he?" A task in part the tissue of lies. To seal, as closing waters—rough-hew them how we may! To make a clean breast of all that.