seeping inward

sleezing the combustible avenues
at dusk,

laughing like a helicopter blade  
at the multilayered sunset.

 

there's liquid fire simmering

beyond the skeletal trees,

and the red bricks lie listless

in neatly stacked mass graves,

even as we scream their names

in long-dead tongues.

in West Palm, some pastel richies

laughed holes into their designer sleeves

because I didn’t know who Versace was.

the only designers I know of are Lee

and Levi.

 

there’s a red-orange slash

across the gray-bearded sky

matching the one

across my blue/white throat.

 

I’m mildly drunk on $3 wine,

and I’m writing a death metal song

about Heaven.

 

the asphalt asks me

what it’s all about,

I just kiss her softly,

and hum a prismatic forever

into her seashell facade.

 

as always,

I think I’m in love.

Reviews

[roarke]

Love always looks like a $3 bottle of wine, like a cheap pair of speakers.....

the first stanza is a GRABBER!! man, I know that one.

the streets are always full of the invisible push and shove, rocking everybody's boat to capsizing. An Apache Dance opening act, smearing the asphalt in brick red crayon.

traveling is the only way to love like that, and then you sober up the next day and put on another thousand miles.....

very cool stuff.

[Kenneth The Poet]

I love the stanza about West Palm, Versace, Lee and Levi. Clearly a man who knows that he's a fish out of water.

Stunning! the way you softly use these strong contradictions, beautifully pulled together. The ending is the pearl of the whole question.