david jewell poet

words. photos. images. whatnot.

impossible ice cream

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impossible ice cream shadow meltng down the back of her neck.
I’m sitting at a table beginnig to evaporate and ruminating over my
past ten years as a razor monkey for the ockham gang, feeling it might be
time for a change, and she with her glitter lipstick and underwater know how
seems the perfect candidate to distract me away from my craving for that
maserati, I think it is the trident as beheld by Neptune on the steering wheel
and hubcaps of the sleek machine that makes me delirious with imagined speed
and power. Faster and faster by the minute and the hour. But it is near sunset
and I’m slowing down now, slurring words, in fact can hardly move more than
about 3 frames a second and I reach out to tap her shoulder as the ice cream
finds the center of her spine and she shutters so delightfully just before she
squels and gets up to use the pay phone.

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