portion of the artwork for Maurice Oliver's poetry
With Zeroes After It
Maurice Oliver

And for two days my problems do not even happen to me.

They go soaring high above me head then jump out of
a plane before parachuting into a jar of mayo I use to
make potato salad. Next, they skate a frozen lake while
smoking cigarettes in a warm winter jacket, glancing
backwards once or twice through the rearview mirror.
Two blissful days pass like a cool underground aquifer all
the way to Walla Walla for a brand new pair of shoes.

Then this morning, everything changes to psychotherapy
with size indicated in the white briefs. Split lipped. Bruised
eye. MacArthur Park without the secret code and completely
unwilling to speak a foreign language.

Am I frightening you?

Well, if you think this story is scary, just wait until I show
you my version of Mt. Rushmore, one-eighth its normal size
and made from silly putty. It can live with just one lung and
claims to be God-fearing!

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 32 | Spring 2011