Shane Plante


To dream the whorl aright. Distorting equations. I adjust my amplifier.
Sandbags and ire. Wavering altos, swerving ethos. Perception, a sanctioned
position. Are you a mathmortician? The odds-on-favourite grips his hat.
I've stolen your thinking, but I thanked you for it. Blood on the cuffs. Inter ruptures.
Sustain that mumbly falsetto. The sky slid open.

These are the imperatives. Allow me to unfasten you. An aperitif while you
wait? Downcasting a shadow. Everything, he said, echoes Chaucer. A blank
of pages. Click to chime. The amnesiac and startle colouration. It's raining,
it's boring. Wheezing to an ersatz conclusion. Is it 'we're no angels' or 'and
the rain drops'?

The cat shows no preference for coastlines. We sailed to a casual haunt.
Vehicles of hospitality and doubt. Awash and lunar. But who was the first
person to explore the West Pole? It was a nice way to start the meal: saucers
full of crackers and a moon made of cream cheese. I shouldn't have laughed
when he said 'Put up your dukes.' We trace to know ourselves. Touched in
the most delicate places. Where we open to the world.

The nurse couldn't glue it back on. Tea and sweets, gingerly offered. The Department
of Teething. How many times have I told you the four pickles go on before the slice
of tomato? Strap a rumba to that rump. The transcontinentalist drifts. Clasps, static,
and transubstantiation. Fit your flesh to the hollows. You can put your halo on the
nightstand. Energy escaping everywhere.

A pair of hands easing into action. His teeth were like plastic. You done horsing around
yet? Fade to focus.

A continent on the periphery. The sky turns from blue to grape. She asked me to clothe
the curtains. We use 26 ladders to reach our alphabed. There's a gap where we read.
Never judge a brook by its clover. The universe is you in verse. Our bodies branch from
the centre. We ate the chocolate angels alive.

Nearly toppling with slowness. The vamp's ire. Your lazy eye is creeping me, babe. The
musical score said to play the piece al dente. Is it time to clap for the Wolfman? Congenital
art failure. Are we the air yet? When will these arms become fins or wings? We gesture
with our voices. Put the scales back on the fish, fucker.

Like the crunch of snow underfoot. This should be easy peasy. Skirt the puddle. His 'English
name' was Randy. Hammering the xylophone. This mystery needs more shadows and rain.
The intake valve is 'acting up.' Breathe your lasting breath.

We start out single and end up double. Tackle what you need and move on. The practice
flourishes in Idaho. The land's cape throws a long shadow. There is always a silence. And
they couldn't put the first person together again. So easy to mishear 'lonely' as 'lovely.'

A pair of ants defend the fortress. We stand behind our molluscs. There's no Belarus in Charles'
Atlas. They said their souvenir stand sells 'tiny whoreshoes' for good luck.

A photo of the bride and her gloom. Picture a bear wearing diapers. Now you've really done it.
Like a bullet in a China shop. Read 'police' for 'please.' You're a hard woman to police. Police
let me hold your hand.

Every town has a restaurant called Humpty's. The Apache fixed himself a cup of tea. Are your
chopsticks drunk too? This piƱata will direct thee. This is what happens when you don't scrub
behind the ears. Everyone loves a good spondaic trochee. I laughed until my ass fell off, literally.

Of dead leaves we know. Yesterday was scatter. Asses to asses, bust to bust. We ever forget to
follow ourselves. Writing a new sentience. Its inner workings exposed to the elements.

Playing sneaks and letters. A children's story with beastly overtones. Howl at the end for good
measure. We'll fry your bacon if you squeal to the pigs. Falsetto exits the scene. No wolves, no
sheep, no clothes. I prefer to think of myself as a perforomance heartist.

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