Leave
In Brighton, a suburb of
Denver,
at 6:03 pm on a Tuesday, a woman
in dark shades is seen careening
through
a yellow traffic light turning
red,
grinning straight into the
windshield
days rerunning behind her:
41 Christmases, 3
mortgages, 4 cars, 5 dogs
7 expired drivers licenses
2 slippers under the bed
Days fill
Nights fill
Glasses fill
Calendars fill
Beds fill
She never fills
But what life did she
expect?
An ant is crawling across
the
knuckles of her driving
hand
He knows the answer but
he's not telling her
Radio rising, orange tip
of a
cigarette sparks the dark
out the window
a light beer in the cupholder
she eases down on the
pedal
humming rubber on white
concrete
going somewhere:
factories without smoke
drowse soundless
ships sail from distant
harbors
cars run silently at
highway rests
numbered seats fly across
time zones
the world continues to
be the same
without her.
Night Scream
This night has nothing to be ashamed of,
and just staggered in this place at last call -
drunken and unshaven, a kind of fuckless orgasm
with no one to tuck it in bed.
and just staggered in this place at last call -
drunken and unshaven, a kind of fuckless orgasm
with no one to tuck it in bed.
This night has roamed across concrete,
faced neon beer signs in liquored mirrors
with hollowed eyes seeking reprieve in
thirsts and pleasures sought.
This night is curious.
This night is weak.
faced neon beer signs in liquored mirrors
with hollowed eyes seeking reprieve in
thirsts and pleasures sought.
This night is curious.
This night is weak.
This night is drenched in vodka, diazepam -
forty miles from nowhere, wild and bewildered
in a ceaseless thrust.
This night aches.
But then we see this:
forty miles from nowhere, wild and bewildered
in a ceaseless thrust.
This night aches.
But then we see this:
Two bodies galloping against each other under cool sheets,
a shudder, then a glow of silver on her thigh, drying.
a shudder, then a glow of silver on her thigh, drying.
A bond, however fragile. Until morning when it takes flight and then it's gone?
Oh, who the hell knows, but I do know this night will stay in bed.
Tony Walton is a Caribbean writer living in the Cayman Islands. His works have appeared in Storyteller Magazine, Moonkind Press, Whisperings Magazine, Mountain Tales Press, Out of Our Magazine, Poetry Bay Magazine, Burningword Magazine, Wilde Magazine, Nite Writers Literary International Literary Journal, Avalon Literary Review, Iceland Daily, East Lit Literary Magazine, Boston Poetry Magazine, Eunoia Magazine, Olentangy Review, Carnival Literary Magazine and Verity LA.
Article originally appeared on phantom kangaroo (http://phantomkangaroo.com/).
See website for complete article licensing information.
Hello Tony.
ReplyDeleteI like your style. It makes my senses sizzle with delight-; sending images and thoughts that click rapidly like a movie. Excellent tone, imagery, and word choice.
-Cassandra
@Mortal_Markings
Thanks Cassandra!
ReplyDelete