Astoria Lamplight

The Angels have the Phone box.


This time, you raise the washcloth,
my blood soaks in. You breathe in.
Glamours renew under the light
of streetlamp flames.
Around us, solid objects move,
statues come to life, all flickering.
Freeze. Our hours … stop.

You, smiling, ease the blood
from above my right eye,
back into its torn skin
compartment, flickering.
If, in another time and room,
a flimsy filter were slotted,
red to green to blue, too blue,
we’d see again our eyes change
hue.

Well, that’s over…
you say.

And I say, This lamplight
is in my mind’s head. Astoria
fell into the sea….
It’s the salt of cleansing.
It has the feel of red
dead liquid escaping.
This blood, in the flame light,
slows like statues not moving.

This time, you, ringing out
the washcloth, smile flickering–
soak up spilled wine, a red,
from the hotel room
bedside table–and then, you
run a wet
index finger,
over my misbehaving right
eyebrow.

You say,
Blink, love, statues don’t move.
Your dream is ending.

We check out early, sun dawning,
and walk alive into Astoria
lamplight, dimming.

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Daydream Vision

Prone.

In a hammock, my field of vision marred by crocheted diamonds of white, blue and green twine, only the uniform movements of black ants — busily running errands — kept my mind from fully giving over to despair. Their whole operation in the business of seeking, gathering, transporting, and delivering goods, leveled me emotionally. And the apparent indifference with which they performed their deterministic actions left me thankfully doleful.

By the Onion Fields


This arcade’s collapsing. This lap needs dancing. Where is the pavement warmest? In the vascular troff of a dragon. Or Carlsbad, California at noon.

She

She, fire on the lake, flare on the lens, bubbles in her bath. She.

Spoon Fed

When bottom is settled into booth, the spoon-hand begins delivery, supplying mouth and stomach with soup. All other concerns fade away. Eating is a singular event.

Auditory Snow

Your radio waves pollute my auditory landscape with yellow snow.

kshawnedgar

The Photographer

She, fire on the lake, flare on the lens, bubbles in her bath. She.