Thursday, October 13, 2011


A drive up the street is light, is a boon —
is full of female matadors.

The moonbeam is a tangent
glancing off his eye juice —

a turn of the head, a crick in the neck,
tearing the muscle in his chest.

She’s an epiphany — the fifth element
setting off dominoes —

prang after prang into prang
as reflectors sing the car-crash song

and she flickers — a film projector
batting her eyelids at bull-bars

like tremors after an earthquake,
tearing the chest muscles of other men

(any man with a memory)
up and down the strip.

(published in Everyday Static, 2010)