Breath’s journey into sleep infected by too many cures still doesn’t mean we’ll spin the residual jolt gone hollow where your silk-weaving eyes torqued the lyric vibe. We found our way out by the light of your cell phone, the indigenous lord have mercy, & painkiller grade Tecate. As soon as you realize where you are it’s where you were & there’s no going back.
The sand plunges beneath the waves here. Tidepool mirrors exaggerate the emptiness of the washed out sky. Plastic bottles tangled in dried out garlands of seaweed & copper wire adorn the water’s edge. This is either the beginning or the end of something, take your pick. The light is fluoresecent & saturates the beach so that there are no shadows. Underwater you’ll find the shadows of those that have drowned & the light is turquoise like the windows of a Mexican church.
Drifting through the drugstore parking lot aching for a little voodoo face-time I had assumed the role of a no credit editor of silence inside a forklift catalog of sunsets. A hybrid Day of the Dead tattoo fading into a sunburnt shoulder. I could still feel the kelp-bed tremors & cold knuckles, the blue press blob & ringtone resurrecting a phantom pain. And then I remembered that I always wanted to end a poem with the word “polyurethane”.