(Ambrosia)

11:16

Humidity is his friend, a stupor from which
he can recover without a cerebral fluid cocktail.

Instead he slides behind noon in rosy shades,
transitioning from verb to adjective as
the lunch rush becomes a crown of stars,
the flies in his skull become a murmur
instead of raging rapids.

Sitting obliquely on a bed of graffiti
he discusses the weather with a multitude of whispers,
the fresh mown grass tickling his nose,
crickets eating his sandwich and the woven silk necktie
around his moth-ridden suit.

Anxiety lives in his shaking fingers
before each nickel’s worth of fortified wine
winds its stinging way down his esophagus.

Accidents are his only connection
to other souls, the way the crowds swell like locusts
around each harvest of sorrow,

each spilled ounce of
blood ambrosia to the buzzing mass texting and
uploading their broken canvas
to another disasterfiend.

image

(Excerpt from the long-forthcoming collection “Offerings to the Urban God’s”)

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