hidden among the notes of siren song
lies deceitful the deadly chord of gunshot
riding sorrows at ease on driftwood
to lose purpose before the dreadnought

fight a war
play a game
give your bones to her
and rot

– o –

the sidewalk held
in its grimy hands
a dragonfly made of
popsicle sticks
and shimmering green
translucent ribbon

it did not look at me
or fly away scared
when touched by my shadow
it was dead
stepped on
like all beautiful things

– o –

I could try telling you
about the time I slept
on a layer of plastic straws
along the metallic laughter
of many unwashed men.
Beautiful, sweaty shine.

But I won’t.

It’s all the same, I suppose,
if I confess that old regrets,
like vinegary tears,
do not agree with clean slates
and the underserved softness
of new beginnings.

But why now?

Now the pillows are propped
and the bed is made.
Suds erase the remnants
of uncooked domestic eat
that survived
on our cheap dishes.

What else?

We walk, unbelieving,
under the conflicting skip
of light and shaded screams.
The jacaranda trees are home
and the street is home.
The menacing lamplights, too.

What, then?

Cannonades of truth, deathly,
spew out from our mouths.
We are the receivers
of transcendence through
clay and diamond hands.

Which truths?

Not of fallen heroes
and cruel, undying villains.
In the space between our kisses
all other words shush
because we always only say
what we need to say.

To each other.

– o –

Hold this robot
With a great singing voice
In your memory.

Trade a piece of tin
For pumpkin pie
And stale goals.

Move everywhere
Within the boundaries
Of these badlands.

But do not dare
To hope.
Hope and the bright lights kill.