murder. on a rooftop.

Some fly by the seat of their amps jagoff Beatles  cover band had just finished their faux rooftop set in a cursory attempted homicide of Norwegian Wood (it was no good), and were rolling their bussed in geriatric fanclub down the switchbacks of wheelchair ramps along with their stage.

No sooner had they jumpstarted a few hearts, incidentally, off a wall of mutilated sound, were they relocated to barstools in a dark and gutless lounge walking distance away, faux infighting, pitting their Lennon against their McCartney, in decidedly Canadian English to the tune of a couple rounds of Seagrams Sevens lowballs.

Up up and away on the roof where they left it, a blood soaked groupie lay down with ear to the cement for some train come listen frozen still posture, carelessly angled out across the parking space spraypainted parallel white lines.

He was young enough not to discern quality from the wall of mutilated sound washed away. He was old enough apparently to get himself thrill killed. Caught in the cymbals. The cross fissured fractures outlining his skull.

His pulse quickly tapered, his eyes they went dull. Blood pooled all about him. So long, Jethro Tull.

murder. in the park

The oil pure olive
swans there were seven
a mountain inverted
erased from the sky

an brownout electric
fashion show in the dark
the sound of high heels
a girl in the park

they might find her body
wrapped up in a vine
her starbucks
cold brown paper cuff
on the ground

the oil
pure olive
no breath and no
sound

the swans glide in sevens
across the old duck pond
beleagured the webbing
half mast with the flag

a shadowy figure
amorphous at best
inverts like a mountain
erased with the
sun

from the sky
having set
in the west

The year 2121

The days of laptops and tablets and cell phones subsided into a sea of fourth world residuals 3d printed out in the dark of light and night of day, via second hand servers globally attuned to pipeline transmissions.

Beneath it all was a bitcoin traffic jam the size of Luxembourg.

The royal family of Amazon decried the undercutting of their undercut. In senseless haste, they waged war on Penguin, which beat a retreat on a mechanical bird straight to Mars.

Cause despite all of modern devolution, everyone reluctantly confessed to their anonymous divinities… in this year of our (insert divinity preference here) 2120, penguins still cannot fly.

the (suddenly rhetorical) question

When she wanted somethin bad enough, she got sweet like high fructose corn syrup.

She would turn her head to an angle most becoming through his eyes of her figure, a calculation she fine tuned in response to the f-stop of his dilated pupils. Her lashes flicked like butterflies alighting.

The moment his attention shifted from the galaxy s, operation tweet unfollow, to her revival theatrics sillhouette girlfriend experience, she popped the suddenly rhetorical question…

“Do you think maybe you could help me out?”

the drowning

i remember drawing up on my tippy toes to vine myself around you. the lake was wicking off of you. onto me. you were so warm as i hung myself off of you, together to dry in the still summer air.

the sunfish flapped over their circular nests. the dock that you built so solid under our feet. the lake all in motion. confused. the sun in a million starry-eyed cuts catching on shiners and lures cast away. 

i could close my eyes and come home. i could give away half of my vision to you.  endless time in circumference washed up on the rocks.

tennis balls float away from the mouths of goldens. memories. never to be retrieved. soda cans washed white by the winters. the sound of me flapping in irons with you. white canvas colors. unmoored at last. driftwood and fiberglass, edges all softened.

decay lay below the dock spiders clinging starfish to running boards. foliage from autumns ago, dark under belly white catfish.

i hung on like a vine, as long as i could. your belly white washboard and dark curly locks, licking my highlights, just kissing my lips.

a heartbeat concussion came over my head. my fear turned to dread. your drowning appeared to me always accidental. lost in the layers of lures in the rocks.

the drowning apparent. my tippy toes can’t keep my head above water. 

i am back to just daughter. unmoored, in the unforgiving ways of the world.

my morse code cries out, three times in the night.  silently flashing. out there you’re thrashing. gin and tonic rolling rocks to confusion again.

rums got us tight. the darkness crept up with the night. the catfish turned up, belly white.

my eyelids are shuttered. you’re now out of sight. my heartbeat has fluttered, sunspotted the blues. blind, black and white. the wood all turned white by the winters.

my tippy toes peeling back, the whole scene now in splinters. crushing my heels. cold as the winters. i cry as i fall like dead leaves off a maple. sliding immemorial with the cloth from the table.

famine. i open my eyes to the trees all bereft of color. the water in my eyes. the who what and whys.

a change in the weather, is all can describe it. my skin now like leather, hangs tough on my bones.

now i am daughter, and it’s late september. i long for the lost stolen days we remember.