Wooden Boys with Bendable Legs

Little Wooden Boy or Pinocchio or Poor Little One in a non-history city



Like when you have too much animal blood lying around
Or under a door frame, inside a tight fitting onclave
Seeping into cracks, little wooden boy legs

Bursting like flowers from so much happiness
But the Two Others were not flowering but dying
Weed tendrils focused on suffocation
Poor Little One had stolen the nutrients,
the bursting belonged to him because he said it was so.

This is the only thing he is sure of

There is no History City, there are no malnourished dogs
Little One is a liar.
Tumorous butterflies fly but they fly with swollen middles
Zig zag like

Two steps further is 200 million miles
wooden legs stained in blood can not make it
more than 1.9999 million steps before they splinter
into pieces and Others use them to play fetch

delusional, grandiose tantrums will ensue
flaying of legs and necks are close to
real limb-ful moments
but limb-ful is not wholesome
when the sky is dipping into the ocean
and the island that you have been floating on
bobbing like a cork
is really a giant fish belly
swollen and white like a knee bone

after reading Kim Rosenfield, Trama