Compulsion

A hollow house shifts

in the darkening hour

but no dust particles sift

sheer as stockings over-

night when the arthritic

ceilings shift, s t r e t c h i n g

swollen joints enflamed

with weighty humidity.

It silently vacuums

all sound, muffles

creaking boards, wind

slipping through cracks,

but misses

 the swoosh,

swoosh,

swoosh,

as a moistened rag rides

grooved tiles, dampens

counters and corners,

but collects no crumbs.

This rag longs to absorb

spilled sauces, squeeze

between cracks, lick grime

and grout, erase mildew

and rust,

shine,

                shine,

scrub,

scrub,

stain,

                stain,

but only slides

across unblemished

surfaces, circling

a set course staged by a raw,

chaffed hand, blistered

from battling entropy.

One Sign of Summer

My ear filaments prickle, catching

faintly audible tremors,

growing more distinct as its source

crawls closer, sending out

a whimsical rendition of ‘Pop Goes The Weasel’.

Minutes slide by, counted

in jingling coins scooped

from under cushions,

hands double-dipping

into chairs and couches,

foggy breaths against

latched casements

that blur the little bouncing figures flinging

themselves to the barren asphalt.

A singsong melody blares forth

from a mechanical megaphone

and the tune circles round, gaining

momentum,

tightly

winding

like

a

jack-

in-

the-

box.

I linger, expecting

a climax, but the crescendo barrels back

to begin the melody once again.

Norma Desmond on Sunset Boulevard

-After Victoria Chang’s “Eva Braun at Berchtesgaden”

 

His body bobs facedown

atop an underlit pool.

The assassin

retreats. The sirens sound

shrill: accents

wail and whir. Her gauzy

gown flows past silent-film

memorabilia, framing coiffed

curls, wrinkled lips stained

rouge.

Then herds of hurried heels

enter and divide, half

upstairs, half to the foyer filling with tendrils

of burnt tobacco. All evening

trench coats interrogate the starlet,

clicking cameras, wafts

of eau de parfum, puffing

powder. Then a coerced descent

down her spiral staircase, faux fans loitering

silently as she saunters

past, back arched, left arm outstretched,

eyes widened for her final close-up.

Migration

Once the cosmonauts blast off
and the diehards crawl

into fortified bunkers, there
follows a live lottery, but no one

flees to mountain dugouts or border lands this time.
Instead, civilians perch curbside, curl

and crouch on couches. Strung out and jittery,
they tap feet, twitch legs, strum digits

amidst puffing smoke that drifts
past flickering blue shadows

formed by stiff announcers who statically
spew statistics laced with strangers’ names.

Others hunch over chipped
concrete counters, grooved tables,

each fiddling with dials to catch the clearest channel.
The millions leftover linger, stomachs

wrenched, hands rung, brows furrowed,
sharing a collective uncertainty.

Miles from nowhere in a dim barn,
a little hand tugs her father’s faded overalls

and asks him the solitary question plaguing the masses:
Who gets to go to the moon?

Maker's Mark

I discharge one ounce
and the caramel liquid jeers,
now a stiff cohort slighted
by the glass chamber’s clarity.

Its presence recalls historic romps,
jostling on galloping steeds,
hasty uncorkings pressed to pallid lips,
gulped feverishly
then splashed
like surfeit holy water
on festering flesh,
a makeshift antiseptic.

I absorb dissolved
memories, tip back the vessel,
then shoot.
The hot infusion funnels
into my mouth,
but I constrict my throat until the last drop,
inhaling seared wood, slivers
of oak casks,
before swallowing the fiery dose.

The liquid trickles downward
coating my innards,
while the absorbed chemicals swell
upward, treading
below skin’s surface,
emblazoning my cheeks.