Double-Talking (Bliss Squeezed Between All of This)

A Nonsensical Contraption of Bliss

today I let perfection slip and remember

the spinning pinwheel. Stop churning and being taunted by

the ideal unattainable grip. To stop sawing

this archaic trunk, with log bundles left to rot outside

in a summer scalded meadow. Dear Fate, I will shell out these tirades

dig them up like buried treasure where X’s crooked face marks the spot.

We’re out here, looking for the right number of connected dots.

Now presenting: a girl who swallows stanza swords

Dry throats replenished by sips from opal-crested

verbal fountains. Wisdom is a tonic drop.

Maddening, these ragged gardens grow, wilt,

and bloom inside the apple orchards, plucked, buckets filled

ripe and ready. Salivating like the canine tongues of Pavlov's dogs

trained by recurring bell dings of classical conditioning.

Back then, we were collecting roly-polys,

unaware of subtle butterfly effects, cliffside grey zone mistakes

filling the empty contents of a fragile glass jar.

The buzz of earwig errors escapes. The rattling snafu snakes soften.

I'll go on like this, sounding the untuned trumpets of opposite-ended,

double-talking to briefly stop revising myself.

Unfiltered eraser pink scar smears too many fibers across the page.

Step through gibberish gates and await the sly Jabberwock,

while young hopscotch thoughts skip over teeth white chalk walls, jumping rope. 

Somewhere between the hedge maze, the act of getting stuck upside down,

nervous notes and harmonica bravado, high-striker hammers

pound 

in sync with the heart’s steady beat.

Somewhere between all of this 

life is a complex contraption of bliss.

Photo by Christian Liebel on Unsplash

© 2025. All rights reserved. Ally Campanozzi. “Double-Talking (Bliss Squeezed Between All of This).”