Mescaline

think

of dirty

windows

and how hard

it is

to give

away

Press into

his hands

“this is for

luck,”

of beautiful

ecstatic lostness,

flight fatigue

“Luck” he repeats

hoarse

as a coin

back, his

early ones

Harlem is henna,

stiff grace,

the profile

glinting

your eye familiar

visions

of plummeting

through carefree trees

into golden

waiting arms

Twist

the coin

knowing it’s for good,

lay it into

the box

next

to the lapel button

you saved

red and black

letters,

give them both

away

but someone

always gives

them

back

Hydrocodone

Liquid

should

be illegal

you

slide too

fast

Adderall

fling

your hues

from the second

storey

burn some

misery

rigid, wasp

skin

the ugly

ramble

of

nose-speak

evening out

until

some asswipe

calls night-sweats

handsome

and sucks

your masculinity

into

manicured

piles

of

Kleenex

and

useless arteries

Klonopin

You sliding

Plexiglass:

a perfect
Easy-Bake image

Your

hair

in thick

strands

for commercial

use

by the caterer’s

niece

uptight

tension buttons

shimmering

behind

the kitchen

island

gutted

walls give

way

to loose

grass

an endless

flow

pale guts

hidden

You visualize

this

new cavern

another

in

your

collection

of stalagmite

jaws

reluctant

child

blonde

orthodoxy

thousands of

smartphone

flashes in

the

poolhouse

(this hurt

is moot)

the worst failure would be to stop swimming

My review of Mark Anthony Cronin's debut collection, Gigantic Failures, is up at The Small Press Book Review.