Sunday, February 19, 2012

A Wave Pattern Cut In Stone

She was drenched in the kind of light that
just melts in the air
bending sea green eucalyptus
in the diesel mirror of newly mapped coast
lines like torn photographs of someone
you might have loved once
Eyes like suicide calypsos walking away
beneath a psychosomatic sky
& you’re digging your way to China
with a plastic spoon
& I’m lighting matches underwater
between a rock & the myth of Sisyphus
with live streaming video
The key to the motel room was a metaphor, right?
& the bloodred sunset folded into the muffled
roar of the surf
like the voice of God echoing in an empty
24 oz. Tecate can
smeared with lipstick