Elevator Music

by John Olson

I am building an elevator of sticks and compliments.

It will be lifted by groans of sorrow and ecstasy.

Strange music will emanate from its walls. Emphatic


smells of sweet oblivion will burst from its nimble

chains. It will dribble brains and museums during

its ascent and flicker benedictions and elbows


on its descent. Its shadow will weigh many tons,

but the elevator itself will weigh nothing. Deviations

of milk will flow through its forest. Gargoyles will purge


its interior of anguish and insults. There will be no panic

or hunting or investment opportunities. There will be only

dereliction and books and anonymity. Of course 


no one can control what goes on in an elevator.

Particularly an elevator with such enchanting properties.

And although this elevator will only have an existence on paper, 


it will cross the blood brain barrier like a stupendous drug

and create a fresh new appraisal of cranberry. Why

cranberry? Why not cranberry? I am building an elevator 


of sticks and compliments. It will be lifted

by cranberry. And its music will be the music

of the cranberry. And its purport and essence 


will be that of the heartwood. It will hiss with fire.

It will seethe with desire. It will exist as a thought

and hang from a long thin wire.