grand prize entry

holding egg plants like children, we waited. 
we had taken our thumb nails & performed numerology
hoping to find unlockable. used shoes
as fire wood to keep the computer listening.
ground water gone purple from bruise-years. 
hope is not a thing with feathers, it is 
something siphoned & dangerous. a rainbow
is always akin to the gasoline cript 
where the great fires wait to be born. we wanted
to want. the almost believed. held tickets 
between our knees. slipped passwords 
under stones. the grand prize was so so mammoth.
we were nothing but sprinkles in its wake. 
our hearts burst like stepped grapes
from asking too much. the things with actual feathers
were doing the dirty work. they flew 
as if to say "yes someone will win."
but never landed. spent the rest of their lives
above ground while we made do and made do.
farmers growing feathers for luck
then eating feather salads at the old wooden table
with the wobbly leg. glass blowers shaping feathers 
& breaking them in the yard afterwards. sliver
of victory, why could this not be something
shareable. split between all the arteries
& left to flow as fish. hovering instead
in the face of the big name machine
who is taking her time to decide a precise
definition of "deserving" before she decides
the who. all that incandense for one person.
how heavy that is going to be. philanthropists
chatter from their vantage in the depths
of the forest where no one can see their wealthy.
i select not to look. the count down will come soon
& i want to sleep knowing less 
than the rest of the universe. 

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