Near Future


By seven the AC quits and it is too late

to dig up the relic fan. Sweat glows like egg wash 

upon my upper lip, crooning a prayer to our

comatose gods as the bloody, candid clock hands

taunt acedia in throbbing pulses, felicitating another day

we have somehow survived in these hairpin streets

tarred with plague songs and misfortune. 

Please wake me when crepe myrtles infest 

our parched soil, my bare feet not convulsing

with asphyxiation. Beg to return to the faded imprints of time 

when a pristine blanket of white coated earth’s canvas, 

paw prints crisscrossing around the labyrinth,

until the artist’s hand returned,

shading the empty space with dull crimson & adding

everlasting spears of destruction and poverty

from the tongue-dark sky. Stay inside:

mother Nature howls with cyclothymia, her fallen body

splayed across television stations, fingers reaching 

through the quagmire to warn shadows of

her impending felonies. My tomato vine is growing,

but no plump ruby radiates at its end. Perhaps

the universe has always been a chain of polka-dotted

dominos, a gentle kiss of impetus steering

till the whole kingdom collapses in shallow breaths. 

But surely, there must be some path to recovery,

so no longer are we rosy-cheeked protestors 

down Capitol Hill, palms pressed against cardstock

with sloping green Expo, lamenting to our humming

goldfish who may be the last of its species &

calling to a god I don’t believe in, My grievances are 

stacked amongst crude graves of boulevard fires

and waning light. These empty wishes fester operatic codas, 

singing a last eulogy for all of us—