Fly My Duck

We must accept the duck as a bag.
The plastic is a new feather.
Fly my duck. Today I carry my
duck to the end of the narrative.
We jump from the conflict into resolution.
I twist his neck and he just pours out
of himself a hundred gold eggs.
I can use him as a bag to carry the eggs.
Cheater. You will never accept this duck
because I never will. If the duck could
speak it would say the feather tastes like
a swollen foot. The duck offers its body
as a bag, the way any god-fearing duck
of western climes would do.




Philosophy

Heraclitus says fire is your soul, your new plastic bracelet. Plato wanted the mouth to spit dialectic. Migratory birds are my new gods. I keep telling you that I am a snail. Look at my shell. It swirls to infinity. So do my legs. So does this dialogue on being. You keep saying there is life in everything. The mailman calls you a pantheist. I call myself a snail. My shell swirls to infinity. My legs end in water. Heraclitus said all men are dogs. What about these snails. The negation (the negation!) made me do it. The snail is now saying to look for death. Heraclitus says the fire is a snail. I am a snail. I have a shell. Someone called me fire. When Plato spits on the ground before me my work becomes easier.




Andrew Lux lives in Rhode Island. Currently he teaches high school to 12th graders. His work can be found in Pettycoat Relaxer and 42opus.


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