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
slow-slither streets.
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,
and you,
want’s dream, maundering
in a fierce somewhere, no gravity,
an untethered satellite of yourself,
an avalanche of uncollected sex data.
Lights dim,
a curtain rises.
Appeared in Angels Flight Literary West, September, 2016
