Bob Schofield
Jun 30, 2014 · 1 min read

This isn’t a planet,

it’s a boat. Or not a boat really,

but a casket.

That’s why it won’t do

a single thing but capsize.

That’s why all the fish here wear black suits.

I opened the door and there was a forest of musicians on all fours, filling the trees with wind chimes made of bone.

I guess it’s just that time of summer.

The time when ancient marching bands are called back from sleeping in the deeper lakes, and tall men with beehives and thunder in their beards all burn the red leaves from their hats.

All my life I’ve dreamed of paddling

down to the center of the earth.

And drowning there, with all the stars

projected onto the upper waves

by some enormous, prehistoric fish

with a light bulb buried in his head, and the little

wooden box that signifies my entire life

balanced on one tooth.

written using Uut Poetry’s Logopoetics V

    Bob Schofield

    Written by

    writer of words. cartoonist of cartoons. sleeper of sleeps.

    Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
    Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
    Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade