a literary arts journal
PAINTED LIONS CATCH ON FIRE
Michael Salcman
The bullshit of surrealism goes back and forth
From meaning to no meaning
And back again
From decade to decade like the seventeen-year cicadas
Like the child you’ve raised against its will
Asleep in your house for the last time
Before going off to college and those scholastic lies
You rejected decades ago at the same age
As if words were a science and not a guess:
Why do we live in a museum my daughter asks
Why do all your patients die my son quizzes?
The manes of Dalí’s finely painted lions catch on fire
The sun swallows the Earth the sun later swallowed
By a black hole where God does not throw dice
A prediction an old man made against his will
Like the Second Coming or a corporate meeting
On an operating room table
A soundless umbrella and a sewing machine
A man with a bowler hat and cane
Floating immobile in the sky forever.