bought a copy of Fast Food Fiction, a local collection of short-short stories.
somehow, instead of inspiring me to write that sort of fiction, here’s where it got me to: fast, bad poetry…
No flash, definitely.
The open lens will feed on
the image for as long as
the film doesn’t go
white from all the light it
eats. Gaping mouth
to a swarm of flies.
These creatures are passive
prints on paper. A fourth-of
One easily believes the error
that, yes, what we see
on the conflict-ridden picture
is, somehow, me
(at the other end of the tunnel)
or a reflection of me, taking snapshots.
But the instance could not cause it
no light enough to bounce and make
illusions. Plastic, glass, or moisture
were not responsible, you see.
My old Russian unit is
vacuum-tight, painted flat-black
(No, it’s a ghost.)
How can you explain that,
instead of a head, it has a camera
propped on torso, arms, and legs?