Greg Purcell
Cold
Chairs set out in the middle of winter
get sleek like aluminum cans.
These are fine for the agents of weather stripping,
yet for those who would sit in them
and bark like seals
with afghans rolled thick across their shoulders--
they are the ones who will fall asleep dreaming
of ice and the eye-white prison busses
taking miracles of men to jail, to wake
without a chair, without winter, and the bus
still honking. You breach a sort of position
and then you stop and that is fine. I sort of
like it here--the walls are walls without
all of this haggling over bricks and mortar,
whether a bear slept here, or just a man.
Gravity puffs as breath
and the windows shatter. That is fine.
You set a chair in the center of winter
and the wind blows. The chair shatters.
There is a bear in here.
Also by Greg Purcell Pornography: Soft core -->
Greg Purcell lives in Chicago, where he is a regular art reviewer for The
New Art Examiner and for Cakewalk Magazine. Greg Purcell has dared jungle animals to code the HTML for his website. If you dare, see it happen here. He stands 5'11" and weighs roughly 200 pounds. Eyes brown. Hair brown. "I won't give you my social security number."
Email Greg Purcell at gregpurcell@gumballpoetry.com.
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