Holiday in an Atlantic state
A lost year
I cannot remember
those flushed moments
naked in the sand and silver wrapped.
with parents who smoked
on the back porch.
Orange fluttered in the pit of her heart.
Random billowing waves of nausea
bitter and resentful.
Crooked salty breeze twisting
slipped over the dunes.
dance in an Atlantic
Daniel removes all subtlety from the proposition.
“You’re a God-fearing American
so I know I can trust you,” he says.
Zola is on the couch next to me.
The flavor of her ankle,
so close and teasingly exposed,
draws my imagination and shortens my breath.
“Don’t believe in dreams,” she tells me
in her rosemary marmalade voice.
“They are all lies, you know.”
But I don’t know.
All I have left are the shadows of an illusion that once
“Where did you hear this?”
“Fuck Daniel. And fuck his American God.”
“Zola dear,” Daniel chuckles and snorts,
“restrain yourself. Our guest is flustered.
Here my friend a drink,” he tempts me
with his locust hands extending me a glass. “A drink.
Yes, we have big plans. For you, for us.
But Zola ignoring his demands
stretches out her leg so
“Would you like to play with me?
We can be children again
and you can collapse on my cherry stone
my maple love.”
A sleepy ragtime chills the room.
I mistake it
for the onset of winter.
A Soul in the Rafters
Ground floor and the service attendant passes his time
out to the incoming guests
with a wink.
They are all contributors to an excellent society.
They donate to the foundation.
And the world will be made
There is a global erosion in literary competence.
It is the main course
for the dinner being held tonight.
Do you have any good reading materials, M?
I would prefer periodicals.
Oh, but that’s right. My soul is in the rafters, and the elevator
been out of commission.
I wonder at the marvel of the movement of bodies.
Or a body. Or nobodies.
It is all dependent on my mood, really.
And the flavor of the drink.
Oh M, why do your lips tremble at the grotesque words?
Yes, we have a long and hazy day ahead of us.
New life yet what was found
but clinging remnants.
Relics of the old guard.
periwinkle of a wife
is stationed at the cross
The air is charged
Mary brings me the news
with a smile on her lips
before the sun rise.
a mistake pulses
and I confuse my own
A Justice asks me where
and I answer somewhere…
Past the canal where the water
no longer flows
to when I was born.
It’s there that the bones
Coin under a bridge.
Three beer bottle caps.
A girl with a butterfly dress
slumbers in a prison of light.
Nightly fold the summer grass
where the winds met.
The word of god’s world rests
in a fiberglass crown
as the dreamed mask
with sparkling pockets
and cast off curios.
The Proximity of Reason
I don’t see through the years any longer
the lines that once distinguished us.
A cavity in space that the flesh
in an unholy avarice drips into
yet never fills
distorts my sight.
There are no heroes here,
here where our histories have become confused,
no fey brethren camaraderie
to bend the world straight
and realign the constellations
in their image.
At noon I barter for supplies
with a martyr in the desert
whose lungs, too filled with the breath of life,
have become cancerous.
She recites abridged Shakespeare for soup
and under the sun the suffocating masses
cling to her voice,
lost in a hot toxic breeze,
drift pointlessly past them.
Change the discussion
to the proximity of reason
(for me, my dear, for me)
and instruct me on the secrets The Giants possessed
before they collapsed.
What price do we pay for the secure knowledge
of our own demise
gained as our sole inheritance
of their ruin?