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| 1 | <!DOCTYPE html> | ||
| 2 | <!-- Template for compiled 'Autocento' documents --> | ||
| 3 | <html> | ||
| 4 | <head> | ||
| 5 | <meta charset="utf-8"> | ||
| 6 | <meta name="generator" content="pandoc"> | ||
| 7 | <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0, user-scalable=yes"> | ||
| 8 | <meta name="author" content="Case Duckworth"> | ||
| 9 | <!-- more meta tags here --> | ||
| 10 | <title>Death’s trumpet | Autocento of the breakfast table</title> | ||
| 11 | <link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="_common.css"> | ||
| 12 | <link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="_verse.css"> | ||
| 13 | <link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="_elegies.css"> | ||
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| 16 | <![endif]--> | ||
| 17 | </head> | ||
| 18 | <body> | ||
| 19 | |||
| 20 | |||
| 21 | <header> | ||
| 22 | <!-- title --> | ||
| 23 | <h1 class="title">Death’s trumpet</h1> | ||
| 24 | |||
| 25 | <!-- epigraph --> | ||
| 26 | <p class="epigraph"> | ||
| 27 | <p>So Death plays his little <a href="apollo11.html">fucking</a> trumpet. So what, says the boy.</p> | ||
| 28 | </p> | ||
| 29 | <p class="epigraph-attrib"> | ||
| 30 | — Larry Levis | ||
| 31 | </p> | ||
| 32 | </header> | ||
| 33 | |||
| 34 | <section class="verse"> | ||
| 35 | <p>He didn’t have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing,<br />top to bottom. It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine<br />begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese.</p> | ||
| 36 | <p>He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining<br />it was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized<br />it was a terrible metaphor.<br />He practiced for six hours a day—what else to do?</p> | ||
| 37 | <p>Death looks at <a href="moongone.html">himself in the mirror</a> as he plays.<br />The trumpet is suspended in midair. Damn vampire rules.<br />Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving<br />but he’ll never know unless a stranger is polite enough.<br />Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone.</p> | ||
| 38 | <p>He wakes up late these days. Stays in bed later.<br />He thinks he might be depressed. The caprese has gotten soggy<br />since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two.<br />The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke.<br />He decides to go to the arcade. When he gets there,</p> | ||
| 39 | <p>there’s only a <a href="angeltoabraham.html">little boy</a> with dead eyes. So far so good.<br />He’s playing a first-person shooter. Death walks past him<br />and watches out of the corner of his eye. The kid’s good.<br />Death wants to congratulate him. His trumpet is in his hand.</p> | ||
| 40 | </section> | ||
| 41 | |||
| 42 | <nav> | ||
| 43 | </nav> | ||
| 44 | |||
| 45 | </body> | ||
| 46 | </html> | ||