I bolt awake,
gulp the vacant moment.
Outside, junk skyline,
octopus metal in the twist distance,
the good blinking of it,
while lightning white cars
Everything is an atom of itself.
Death sentences, grisly pretty,
amid light-up shout music.
That leading man,
one lacquered nothing,
wing-sunk and experimenting
in his mirrored charm garden,
painting honeysuckle dust
beneath a summersault sky,
want’s dream, maundering
in a fierce somewhere, no gravity,
an untethered satellite of yourself,
an avalanche of uncollected sex data.
a curtain rises.
Appeared in Angels Flight Literary West, September, 2016