Oakley's Gone Off the Bridge
to Tad Oakley Hall, The Third
by J.A. Tyler
Waiting for electric genius to pin his beetle body down again.
Rambling home with Seattle.
Rust colored arcing beams.
Middling height.
Above river stones forever washed in smooth churning as ladies’ legs in ultra-clean fashion.
Guzzle chuggle of grainy mash.
Huffle puffle of weedy strings smoking.
Speaking of god.
To god.
To Jarry.
To himself.
To the sacred and the divine as if rolled into one filter-less exhaust.
Lips could pet a rich longing moustache branching hither dither.
Full mouth suddenly torn on tender rocks.
Gently kissing his brain until all the brilliance fell out.
Crackling now with stutters of slow but still the minutia of IQ points.
A baby was on the way.
Enveloping fetal fluid
as his dad sucked river water off the bottom of a crystalline Lexington moment