03/23/2011

ONE SENTENCE STORIES

Split, crackled wood spits smoke into the lonesome river.


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Yawning, running around the place, sleeping, more yawning later, barking when that man left those things in that thing, eating and eating, drinking, sleeping on the soft thing, some more barking, and finally, after all that, She pulled up inside that big loud thing and came back into the house.


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Wife of one, mother of seven, witness to an immeasurable collection of drudges and jubilations—we, your children, come before you now with this humble boon, that you demonstrate the lovingkindness of your heart to us by granting us, your servants, just o more hour until bed.


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With uncanny gravitas, he hurled his boyish body to the ground and wondered silently, “How is it that I’m so damn happy?”


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The thought of a sudden light coming from dazzling darkness at the beginning of all things frightened her, so instead of listening to the remainder of the sermon she casually put a cigarette in the corner of her mouth and scratched the match across its box.


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The happy patient spider makes no sound—except that of a shoe.


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MOON OVER MAURY

The jet-pink sky pushes itself out of sight, west over Staunton, ready to hurl its light upon another scene. The doe lifts her happy head to see the dusklight fleeing.



Bright kindling lights from the south destroy the dreams of the loblolly.
                                 Trucks jaunt and wagons bustle in the valley below, erasing the
metaphysics of the meadowsweet.



Shepherd-moon watches over his flocks of clouds,
                                                                         born to be uncivilized,
                moves above the lilting eastern foothills into the abandoned expanse where he rushes
but never wastes the
                 crow-blue Night
                                            lights a world clothed in snow, a dullish blue-velvet only vaguely
comforting,
                                            like a burned-out log in a wild place.

                                 Quaking in the dark,
                                                                            the streams sing a shearwater scale

cheerful in the dark.

Clear skies wrap around the fair orb,
                                             unveiling the stars
                                                                                      like daughters.

There is some ineffable joy in this place, despite—
                                                                       or
                                                             amidst—
                                                the aggregation
                                                                     of death,

                                        and under this moon all is free and
cold and holy.

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Adam Palumbo is a poet-critic from Annapolis, MD. His research includes rigorous people-watching, too many hours on his computer, and wearing sweatpants in the kitchen. He reads a lot and writes a little. He has published poetry at Camroc Press Review and poetry reviews at The Rumpus and PANK.