Monday, August 16, 2010


by Ben Rasnic

August heat precipitates

steady rain feathering

pink cotton candy swirls

and watercolor canvas pools

quivering in neon funhouse mirrors.

Sideshow games tilt

from leaded milk bottles

and greased crystal dishes,

shooting gallery rifles with bent sights

and barrels crooked as a raccoon’s penis.

Bearded bikers

sport tattered denim,

arms plastered

in purple ink tattoos

man the ride controls.

We ride the Scrambler, the Cyclops,

the Tilt-a-Whirl and finally,

the Ferris Wheel where we kiss

until our lips chap, then cozy up

in the black curtained booth,

my sweaty palms pressed

against her bare naked breasts

for the first time,

nipples pink and swelling

like candied apples;

exit through a mud puddle maze,

ghost image film strips

of blurred lives

and spent quarters

trampled underfoot.

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