At the carnival, Robo-Boy sees only things he recognizes. The Ferris Wheel is an overgrown version of his own bells & whistle eyes. His Flashers, his mother calls them. The tilt-a-whirl is the angle his head tilts when the Flirt Program goes into effect, usually in the vicinity of a Cindy or a Carrie, though once he found himself tilting at the school librarian which caused him to wheel in reverse into the Civil War section knocking over a cart of books that were waiting to be shelved under B. There’s a dangerously low stratosphere of pink cotton-candy clouds being carried around by the children. If Robo-Boy goes near them, the alarms will go off. It’s a kind of sticky that would cause joint-lock for sure. In a darker, safer corner Robo-Boy finds the Whack-a-Mole game. He pays a dollar and starts whacking the plastic moles on their heads each time they pop up from the much-dented log. He wins bear after bear. It’s only when he’s lugging them home, the largest one skidding face-down along the sidewalk getting dirt on its white nose and light blue belly, that he remembers the program: Wac-a-Mole Realism™ —the disk on the installer’s desk. Suddenly it all fits together: the way a deliciously strange thought will start wafting out of his unconscious —and then WHAM, it disappears.
-for turning me on to Matthea Harvey. Contemporary poems for when your mind wants to go wandering not by skipping-which will only get you to the blandest landscapes- but rather hiking.
This gem here reminded me of the one that follows it.
And yeah, I didn't include the name because I'm not wild about it. Whack-A-Mole Realism. Meh.
P.S.- I got a couple brand new folks commenting! Welcome Tina and Louise. Eek! I feel loved. (That was an eek of joy and excitement, not of seeing-a-mouse fear. I'm not afraid of you! Oh yeah, I went there...)
Labels: esoteric historical or poetic