I. Exhabition We sat on the floating tilt o’whirl at the parking lot carnival at night. The neon lights slowly faded and we sat tight underneath the pressure of the—safety belt Waiting for the machinists and operators to abandon their stations To be alone Without the noise and clutter of the world The darkness seemed surreal with the vivid memories of starbursts spread out—every three inches Watching us with serene potential They mock our impotence Watching what amusemeant To one in the past When the world was as simple as The floating tilt o'whirl at the parking lot carnival at night. —xanax makes the night light like a firefly— We dance as freely as a floating tilt a ‘whirl at the parking lot carnival Wearing nothing but ambition on our back and hearts up our sleeves Watching the lights come to life in retrospectacle Wanting nothing more in our retina or on our reticle Than the science behind the miracle of how we transcend conscience as We sit on the floating tilt-o-whirl at the parking lot carnival at night. II. Reminiscing on the 116 I sense the presence || A nomadic soul enters when the doors open by the Locomotive tracks. So dissenting must the experience be for the forgoer. Lo, Where do you get off? Facing the lake, A shimmery seiche; The wavelengths radiating from Ethereal summery depths. Dipping a toe, the shock Venomous as it is voltaic, Offers salty solace to the stoic’s nostril, Yielding a touch to the tongue beyond displeasure. Else, there is a grandchild in their greater years Unable to take care extended with grace. Randomly accessing the memories of Space and time that prophetically race, Yet control, plus a zenith Ensure the undoing of the dissenting descendant. The heart has yet to be touched however, I promise you will be there at the top of the hour. Nay, the end of this hour. Our Subterranean burrowers leave scars Everywhere but our legs. Dreaming, you are not, As you descend Through the organ. Equal parts euphoric and Dystopic. Grains of salt will assist the firewall, Restricting the bridge between then and now. A-N-D Every severing cut Updated by our imachinations Reinstates the purpose of your wanderful soul. III. Deontoxication In talks occasional, He Feels: content is necessity With our engravings So rigorous On slots and pane: Ten Commandments lead The unkind necessarily To gather a moral compass Direction. The sires Answer His deliverance, Demand order so That darkness bounds the mind. *** Intoxication, all he Feels: contentedness/acidy Withering ravens Soaring or else Onslaughts and pain Tend to come adamantly. The unkindness is airily Together. Some more will come pass The wreck, shun desires And service the liver, once The man orders, o’ That darkness bounds the mind.
The rhythm of thieves and killers plays in my mouth every day, blasting colonized letters up my throat and Piecing my words into grave reminders— breathing my mother would invite me to doom. I would never speak for myself again. Like a ghost, I wish on midnight stars that I could poison my bastard tongue, ridding its rule from my spirit.
He arrives in murmuring blue tie puffed like a poised rattler He has brought a ruby flower scent of languorous hours "Have you never been to France?" His face is sluggish but his fingers fly He finds a dear spot behind her ear "Tell me. Tell me." Her eyes are ruby wine and his his eyes his eyes are the ports of Le Havre
O’ come and play dear Golden girl; Elixir as sweet as a mixture of honey And fix me a treat that keeps you so sunny, To trick mine eyes too to shine as a pearl. A sip and my trip is straight into the whirl, And smooth it is so for you are so runny. When with you I see the unimportance of munny, Else my world is a hush, as a thrush or a merl. So roses, I give to you in a hurl, My stomach is full of the fluff of a bunny, O’ come and play dear Golden girl. Do not shy away; my mind is a’ swirl, My moments are captured in drip, drips of honey. So roses, I give to you in a hurl. Whirling in whorls I dream of a world Where you can stay and keep company. O’ come and play dear Golden girl. Half-empty my glass, skies that aren’t sunny, Spinning, no balance, and yarns that aren’t funny. So roses, I give to you in a hurl, O’ Come and play, dear Golden Girl.
From that day that J’uanchok gave me his Eagle’s Headdress to wear on the fullest moons, I haven’t missed a date. Faithfully, under his sentinel glare, I don this white feathered mask like a new skull and marry its spirit— spreading my wings, learning its precision, soaring hawk-like through moonlit forests and over sandy beaches; bumbling bitterly by, my fellow peers mumble their disapproval: “What nonsense!” they snicker. “Such absurdity!” But J’uanchok, arms folded, stands watching from a distance. Only J’uanchok knows that it is no game; only he knows that I’m really learning to fly
The crowd is as thick as the smoke in the air. His steps are calculated, keeping his distance from the young bodies that dance around him. Hands float through the air, reaching for anything but he returns to the wall, to wait until he is brave enough. Another button is unfastened on his white dress shirt, a hope that he might for a moment feel young again. He sees it. They know. His hair is full, his body is fit, but he is not a part of this world. He had his time. But no more. He would give anything to have it again, to suck out the life and gain back the time he lost. When a young man, eyes blank and hair disheveled, stumbles into his arms, he doesn't say no to clumsy hands and the stench of tequila. He wouldn't dare