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We do not make doilies upon which a delicate teacup may rest breathing steam

By Shawn Delgado From Issue No. 8

We build tables you can stand on jump on that an entire family can stomp on five generations thirty-one cousins at least invited and most turn up for the dance to celebrate your wedding where you all leap at once We build houses that stand in magnitude eight earthquakes or tornadoes where the ripping wind is a hot knife in snow but even when a Holstein heifer and a baby grand piano slam the roof you don’t lose a shingle and the cow somehow lives and learns to play Chopin Our instruments are not gentle murmurs the shade of sunset they oomp and awk coat the air in coloratura or crack drums like Brazil nuts in a giant crab’s claw never softly, the piano, except when the glissando reduces each listener to the size of a fly who can now hear every note in his beard

About Shawn Delgado More From Issue No. 8