a cardboard western with plastic guns.
Sunday, and the weather put weights inside us.
Couldn’t remember who I was talking to,
just that he had a mean voice and
a way of looking at life
like it was a record, and
all you had to do was spin it.
“Hearts," he said,
“hearts are like floating duck toys in the ocean.
They come and go,” and he laughed.
Didn’t know his luck, just a baby in a wicker basket
floating North on the Nile, too busy counting clouds
to spot the crocodiles, missing lunch all together.
Spackled sailor in the boondocks, no water in sight
and it’s easy to get dirt in your eye
when you keep your ear to the ground,
that’s why he’s talking about love
when all he does is fuck.
That’s why I’m staring at my feet,
heavier than the head or the heart
still the only ones in the dirt.
With all of us simply parts of THIS,
this universe made of dust,
what are we but waiting to be swept up
and deposited elsewhere.
Couldn’t tell you who left first,
shooting or running,
but before it ended he turned to me
and said, “Kid, all you gotta know is this,
chlamydia’s like garbage in the ocean.
It’s fucking everywhere.”
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This story appears in Poetry Is Dead issue 1. If you like it online, you'll love it in print. Subscribe Now »
