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Copyright 2005-2009,
 LeRue Press, LLC



Selections from
 Fractals of Past

by Benjamin Arnold


one thing into another
then things spun
into thangs

sharpies and notebooks
aerosols and alleyways

airsoft pops
turned into
real bangs

a wannabe thug
got his name crossed out
now Luis can't even breathe

I wish we could go back
to when graf writers
weren't confused with gangs

but no
my friend didn't live
in the old school

he's now depressed
into this earth
way too soon


Small Odds in Reno

No clocks, no windows.
Plenty of booze and fools.

This place is so close to hell,
I can see sparks in the bright
blinking lights of the biggest
little racket in the world.

I canít take this anymoreó
watching confused souls
choose to paint brick sidewalks
with their own blood and piss.

Maybe my friend in Fallon will lend me some money.
I could bus it along the loneliest road,
then work for my brother in Provo
until the first snow, maybe head for Humboldt.

A kid with pale-golden hair
wanders through the leaning light
of the busís aisleó
bounces off seatsí slashed edges.

He nudges the drunkó
another who lost
his last whisper of hope
trying to seduce snake eyes into seven.

Lakes shimmer on the cracked floor
of an ancient oceanís ghost.

The sunís glare scorches my eyes,
scars my brain.

A dust devil flings
balls of weeds,

attacks the Harrahís billboard
thatís planted along the black river.

The bus shakes
to a stop in Austin.

The drunk man limps to the front,
little towhead fisting his shirttail.

Passengers visit real bathrooms
and browse the tiny sand-soaked store.

We continue rolling east and I realize
the man, and the kid, did not join us.

A microcosm of dust stars hovers
and shifts above their seat. 

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Copyright 2009, Benjamin Arnold, All rights reserved

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