by Dan Flore III
I am only an empty red bull can
a blizzard of words
coughing in my mind
idle brains chattering at my jacket
getting by on a good hat,
a skateboard jump into the eclipse of what is abandoned
or maybe kidnapped
tonight as stop watches roar and pendulums murmur
she says the word cold with a speech impediment
that stabs me
a deep enlightened vulnerability
that makes choruses of children
rise to notes that raises waves over skyscrapers
without a drop of water hitting the cement
I walk through her gown
her hop scotch vagabond spirit
and am clouded, ignited
without a home
in an expanse of feather petals longing for a great wind of flight
I am chalk dust in her eyes
I reach into the exterior
the faceless strands of what will pass
and watch them pull me into heat rash
wind burn and comets gliding into their trails
I look down and watch my wounds drip
into her longing to scrub another's blood
but the sky embraces me
in its patterns of light and gentility moons
it coats me in its linen
even while the after taste of this earth still lingers
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