The first grins would split a devoted root; we were lulled into practiced conversation like open necks. Strange how our nature still rings beyond grasp, beyond any morbid or pornographic fantasy, despite its vacuum of riddle and injury.
Years on, our tired seeds argue Earth’s spin. Some conversations triumph—rare, naked conversations locked together like double stigmas, spun around unlit pleasure on an accurate axis...and these old peppery roots might still split an unsuspicious Earth.
In the end, the garden yields to the lava in a haunted avalanche. Biology is useless when dead dreams break loose and bitter ghosts come down to shake their cracked faces and stop smiling. Worse, oblivion is quiet—no one can hear nature’s gospel of slow crushing.
One Last Piece of Junk
Memories are no longer facts; memories are eavesdropping. I saluted her against an early sun. You’re ridiculous, she huffed, I shouldn’t have to listen to you decapitate yourself. I retreated along an obtuse angle like a young offender and his reverent squaring of a debt.
She smiled like a strangler fig; her skin was a calla lily. I saw my name in shadow along her lean hip. Every scene was a chromatic jewel—elbow to belly, dirty laughter, a capful of afterlife in a knife of sunlight. The voyeur couldn’t have breathed, flickering red and silver the other side of a crack in the fence, waiting.
We crashed like a rainbow and the city fell skyless into a dark barometric pressure. Fortune has yet to settle in the wake of that utter moment. You can hear it in the right poem, she said, how a private vocabulary can reassure a reader. I adore the new ponderous loss in every post-dusting of her apolitical libido.
A Hundred and One Pounds
First night with the flight attendant was allergic. The breeze stopped and our hands stuck together. Our confederation was sudden, like the nose of a 747 splintering through her bedroom wall.
On her front steps, between mispronounced kisses, she said she weighed a hundred and one pounds. I told her every star is an angel’s asshole. I was bionic; I tossed her all around her porch.
She sunk her hand into a moist flower trough, massaged muddy streaks across my face and neck.
We moved to her bedroom. Our breaths hobbled across her sheets to the chafed edges of her bed.
We found a sloppy metaphor in the blue glow of her clock radio: an orbit of a certain number whose final circle set us loose like broken carnival rides.