Marty ESworthy

Marty ESworthy

Popcorn Jewelry, Hard Nipples, Soft Beer
The arcade, hey, that’s one of the places they got it right.

A housing development made to look like the midway of a seaside amusement park, a place for whores and sailors. Remnants of garish painted signs chipping, and peeling concrete walls. Peelin’ off like kamikaze zeros. Glorioski! Crash like thunder. Like cloud to cloud lightning and a spark that jumps from one cloud to another.

Reminds me of the lake country. The Arcade. You’d swear that you can smell the aerosol of salt and the popcorn and warm beer. Dr-r-rop the coin right into the slot, you’re in another world./ Nipple world. Jungle-ville.

Hung! You can almost smell Wordsworth and his sister. Port town mocking laughter of a malevolent clown–his face clenched in a rigor mortise grin, mantecoso motion mimicking the spasms of botched kill– and dominating the entrance to the narrow arcade. Astride the lake country like a colossus. Ducking warm bodies, greedy for amusement, feed their tokens into the goddamn engines. Wordsworth and his sister grope in a dark corner.

Look at them, I say, in the corner. I have never, have never ever heard such gentleness in my voice. Okay, I am very well, it’s morning. Each morning in the sky of dawn, she bathes. Wordsworth’s sister. She cannot anticipate the future unless she is cleansed before the first ring of the hammer. She removes her blouse and the scarf that maintains her voluptuous hair. It’s going to be a warm day. The hair that launched a thousand bots! Bombs over Tokyo.

Boom! Air explodes when heated suddenly to a high temperature. Like popcorn. Or a small faucet of gold spilling over as she fills a bowl of clay. She splashes conclude water above her head. The dew point rises. She watches outside, signs on a booth proclaim that the future is certain.

She does not flinch or shiver as she pours, her nipples grow hard. She finishes her tune. From a little shelf she picks up a gold comb and combs her hair. Fans in the top of the booth blow her feathered glory dry.

In one corner stands a gypsy-fortune-teller booth. Near Olympus, all thunder is caused by lightning. Confined to the booth is a slender figure with dark hair and golden eyes. Only visible from the waist up, oblivious to the tawdry world outside her box, she shuffles cards and deals them out in precise patterns until someone puts tokens into the coin slot. A mechanical timer counts the seconds she can see and hear the world beyond the glass.

Whoa, she sees Wordsworth!

The bard gives me a handful of tokens and encourages me to force feed them into the coin slot. The first coin clatters into her blouse! Lucy of the golden eyes looks up from her cards and sees us. Ola! She is happy to be free. Leonine and serene, she looks to the sky. I look to her blouse.

Until we pass into a zone of heightened reality. In the new paradigm, I tell her a story. About a little port town. Okay, okay, the arcade, I say, is one of the places they got it right. Listen, a place where sailors and whores laugh at the remnants of garish painted signs chipping and peeling off concrete walls. She looks to the sky, her face clenched in a rigor of seventy smiles. Cloud-to-cloud lightning-sparks over the Mediterranean. The dew point jumps.

Hauntingly reminiscent of the lake country– the arcade. It’s so real. You can almost taste the salt and the popcorn.
An’, Y’Know– Them Drowsy Owls, Nodding, Eyes Half-Closed, Begin/Began to Move Their Tiny Owl Heads and Sway to the Thrusts of the Glacier
Megan took the baobab leaves and gnougou into her pale hands
and lowered her eyes. Behind her– that green state of Wisconsin,
tiered, as it were, with entensive earthworks, mounds and basilicas.

Constructed in the forms of eagles, lemurs, bears and serpents,
she opened her eyes wide. Near and far, small conical mounds
were believed once to have been used as altars. Holy

smoke billowed high into the rise of free cities. Her hour had come!
She knotted her long dress around her middle and began running
at full speed toward the royale enclosure. No, not much.

It is by no means certes that the ice age is over.

Standing by the ocean’s roar, verily, numerous hemispheres
swathed by electric floes of slag. Chill, great lakes.
Yea, after
those words, a quite/ profound silence/ reigned o’er the room of Solomon.