04-29-2017, 03:04 PM
Annie
Oakley shot a squirrel
in the house, through the orchard,
to get a hickory nut.
A rifle fired writing
side to side.
The encyclopedia
failed her audience, truly split
edge-on, tossed in the air, cigarettes
from lips, a card riddled
before it touched the ground.
Perhaps her ability to repeatedly
touch, while using feet.
R. A. Koestler-Grack watched
Chief Sitting Bull. Oakley
skipped on her rifle,
aimed at a candle,
snuffed out the whizzing bullet.
Sitting Bull watched corks off bottles,
a cigar held in his teeth.
I can't believe this is the penultimate poem.
Oakley shot a squirrel
in the house, through the orchard,
to get a hickory nut.
A rifle fired writing
side to side.
The encyclopedia
failed her audience, truly split
edge-on, tossed in the air, cigarettes
from lips, a card riddled
before it touched the ground.
Perhaps her ability to repeatedly
touch, while using feet.
R. A. Koestler-Grack watched
Chief Sitting Bull. Oakley
skipped on her rifle,
aimed at a candle,
snuffed out the whizzing bullet.
Sitting Bull watched corks off bottles,
a cigar held in his teeth.
I can't believe this is the penultimate poem.