ISSUE: Spring 2012
Everyone I know is mad
to make a mess of every littlest thing
and the phone is easier to dial
when the news is all
dead starlets, dead war, dead phony Bigfoot,
(an ape suit, mouth full of orthodontics,
pink guts spooled out of a possum).
I want to be terrified. I want to sleep beneath
something so antique
even beasts won’t care to come looking
no matter the ravening gush of blood in their ears.
I want to count footsteps
as they approach
when all the precepts of ambush
have been abandoned.
What a hoax these few seasons are, dwindling down.
a monotony of blue sky.
the vapor-dowsed horizon.
The coiled-up weathers
stupid with rage and water. Right now there is a roar
of crappy cars coming this way
and it’s like horror is being delivered
doorstep to doorstep. I’m with them,
running out into the night.
My naked chest, my crashing heart,
a crumpled sound falling out of heaven.
