She had the hair and teeth of someone you’d meet
at walmart at three in the morning.
It was three in the morning at walmart.
She was buying hair conditioner and tooth-paste.
He was bald and didn’t take the time to brush his teeth.
He was buying a hat and breath mints.
They met in line.
Both had less than ten items.
It was three in the morning at walmart.
She was buying hair conditioner and tooth-paste.
He was bald and didn’t take the time to brush his teeth.
He was buying a hat and breath mints.
They met in line.
Both had less than ten items.
Prison of
Roses
It has been two days since I escaped your prison of roses. I have walked the streets half dead, falling like sand through the fingers of creation. In the windows I see people smiling, unaware of all the reasons why they shouldn’t be. Will I remind them, with lugubrious expressions, of the buried tragedies that the ants who nibble at my ear sing to me? I burn my forehead on the sidewalk. I burn those thoughts away.
It has been two days since I escaped your prison of roses. I have walked the streets half dead, falling like sand through the fingers of creation. In the windows I see people smiling, unaware of all the reasons why they shouldn’t be. Will I remind them, with lugubrious expressions, of the buried tragedies that the ants who nibble at my ear sing to me? I burn my forehead on the sidewalk. I burn those thoughts away.
A dog limps out from behind an alleyway
dumpster. Its head is massive with a
thin, membranous sheet of skin draping it like a wet napkin. It smells the dawn creeping up on us from the
skyline of the city and waits outside the butcher’s shop.
It has been
two days of desert heat. I parade down
the abandoned avenues, clip-clopping as if on hooves. Those without souls look through their
pockets for something else to sell to the gawking spectators who crowd around a
bloodied buzz-saw as if it were a halo.
The street lights flicker a bit before turning on. Someone has left their wooden-leg on the
boardwalk. There is another on the pier,
termite infested. An empty canoe floats
by as lifeless as a bloated corpse.
Buoys in the distance look like undertakers, ring like funeral bells.
It has been
two days since I escaped your prison of roses, but it could have been two
years. Without the prick of your thorns
I forget that I’m not dreaming. I miss
the quietude of your cold labyrinth.
The Flood
”Who are you when you are alone?”
”Myself, invisible.”
Those are the words I dreamt we exchanged
during the second I was asleep.
She was twisting her face
to chew the inside of her mouth.
Her eyes haunted an abandoned light tower.
I poked at her with a stick
to probe the depths of her mind,
but her flesh was in the way.
Later,
we stood on her porch
watching the flotsam of cigarette butts
dance on the gray flood water.
She said she never could paint a storm
but still I imagined swords raining down
from the great clouds
in her eyes.
I laughed.
I don’t know why
or how
because I was drowning under the lens
of a microscope.
Snake’s Funereal.
The severed head of a snake
watches a red
sea of ants
swarming towards it.
The guillotine-shovel
leans against the old wood shed
and smiles
with rusted teeth
as the tide rolls in,
crimson and tumultuous,
and leaves only a small and
hallow skull
as it recedes.
Does the snake’s soul
go with them,
scattered among the crowd
in writhing pieces
as they return to their
strange cities underground?
Or remain with the skull,
naked and profane
yet still no less abject
in its vulnerability?
”Who are you when you are alone?”
”Myself, invisible.”
Those are the words I dreamt we exchanged
during the second I was asleep.
She was twisting her face
to chew the inside of her mouth.
Her eyes haunted an abandoned light tower.
I poked at her with a stick
to probe the depths of her mind,
but her flesh was in the way.
Later,
we stood on her porch
watching the flotsam of cigarette butts
dance on the gray flood water.
She said she never could paint a storm
but still I imagined swords raining down
from the great clouds
in her eyes.
I laughed.
I don’t know why
or how
because I was drowning under the lens
of a microscope.
Snake’s Funereal.
The severed head of a snake
watches a red
sea of ants
swarming towards it.
The guillotine-shovel
leans against the old wood shed
and smiles
with rusted teeth
as the tide rolls in,
crimson and tumultuous,
and leaves only a small and
hallow skull
as it recedes.
Does the snake’s soul
go with them,
scattered among the crowd
in writhing pieces
as they return to their
strange cities underground?
Or remain with the skull,
naked and profane
yet still no less abject
in its vulnerability?
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