22
6:00 am
The Queen of Glass Bottles, sepia-tinted,
is rumaging the streets
it's not Paris in the fall
but maybe a blue Prussia of the fallen,
this morning is a whirligig for my eyes
that can't stop from blinking,
a cacophony of scavenger cars, tailpipes,
metal scraping the streets,
where was I last night
and who did I dance with?
I remember a doll with spider eyes
brought a trick to his knees
and the singer made smoke-alarm innuendoes
through my baby blue contacts
I thought it was me who couldn't
see straight. I like the way, she,
I, live shaken and not stirred.
Later, in the back alleys of third world morning,
I vomited the slush of my liquored phantom-thoughts.
Now I'll ask the Queen of Glass Bottles
to squeeze me into one of her long-necks,
Myself, slithering, trapped like a lizard,
a self-exile into an island nation
of white silence and oblique walls.
I'll ask this titter-tatter lady
picking up the refuge of the morning,
my recherché thoughts ricocheting,
to fling the bottle that holds Myself,
my soul smashing into bits and bites,
slivers of spoilt meat for the strays
the cat people, the dumpster kings,
with the sound, the splatter
you'd think the world might notice me,
in my blue shard refractive state
but morelikelymorelikely
it will not.
Kyle Hemmings holds an MFA in creative writing and likes to cook, bake, and burn food. He also listens to The Beach Boys sing of an endless summer that never arrives. You can email him at sacerb2@yahoo.com
