Echoes of Lightning

Echoes of Lightning

fourteenth summer in a millennia

Paper plates and limp napkins littered the flaky deck like used condoms; we all lay round the yard taking in the unsaturated blue of sky that the whole world fades into when a summer sun waves “goodbye see you tomorrow, 6am sharp, supposing you fair through the night”; the air rinsed us with such humidity and rung us out when the flag bandana girl whipped out the packet of stars; everyone took a few at first lit them to twirl above their heads creating their own halos; but tricky darkness falls wide and moves their palms in pantomime like druids, who swayed in circles, pounding the breast of the bonfire beast; we became witches; we became demons; and those halos sparked us to rebellion; we cursed the air with fire sticks; we burned anagrams into our eyelids so that we could only remember our names in the echoes of lightning; the sound would draw through the air and when we closed our eyes together we knew we saw the same spell cast at different angles; bandana girl and i lay in the grass dipping the fallen stardust in a water trough unaware of other echoes from other sparks that had already begun – but we felt them; the reverberation then – of lightning already forged in gunfire – of lightning that scarred the charred and dust crusted earth of the most recent strike – some 72 hours away from this Pennsylvania memorial – day light unwound now; six bodies six foot down now; cause one guy blew a cow now; cause he couldn’t get his cock mouthed; now those particles vibrate through us and the bright white pointed on our finger guns; but we ain’t got no gun problem; only the sparking fingers that beckon the target and “oops” snap the trigger; the only killing problem is a baby killing problem; the only women problem is a loudmouthed women problem; the only skin problem is a cancer skin problem; only justice is a religious kind of justice so to get anything done why not give away halos like oprah; here’s one for you; here’s one for you; here’s one for your company while your at it; maybe we can invite the foundation to next years picnic – god knows everyone else will already be wearing stripes; maybe it can bring the stars; maybe it will curse us for ornamenting our hair with fireworks and calling ourselves progressive; or warrior; or america; or free; maybe we won’t wear blue; maybe we wont wear white; maybe we will paint ourselves with the echoes of black hands and red coat hangers; maybe we will look up and wish to pluck out a few fifty stars so bandana girl and i can whisper them secrets and kiss them between us and maybe the white lightning will discharge into a beautiful black hole and leave this porch dappled with vapors of the aurora borealis; 

For Chen, Hong, Wang, For Cooper, Michaels-Martinez Weiss, For Brown, For Garner For the Future Infinite

©2014 Lex Vex

The Shadow of Thunder

The Shadow of Thunder

He takes it into

his body

the silence and the scream

He marches

along

 footpaths and trembles the shivering daffodils.

He comes to fill the

silence

between the forking paths

both are steep

though one

winds down to

the guttural chasm which sucks sound from molecules so their

whispers at least may sooth each other

though one

winds up to

a Vulcan crag; he rumbles up the steepness

head lolling drunkenly across the path. He will collapse at zenith

what follows: his pawing for a hollow log to funnel his gasps.

when he retches down the cliff

 the whole

 valley

is

swept up

in vibration

He is not the smack

which crumbles the plaster walls of Jericho

nor the warm

murmurs of ocean caves

;

he is the void

when belief has yet to penetrate and nurse

stigma back

to health

He kisses the bullet-

-biters, and soldiers

leaving their tours half dissolved. His method

of love making

is slow and almost mistaken for

silence

as he

plucks the arrows into quivering

full-bloomed

lips

©2014 Lex Vex

that we'd become smoke

that we’d become smoke

I could burn the taper

of a flame

for every hour

we wasted

and the whole world

would be masked by

titanic waves

frozen and entrapping

millions in a turtleneck

of wax. Nobody,

he’s dead. and all the rest

entomb Nobody’s body

in the clearest crest

and when we gaze at

No One contorted across his tomb

I think of us

and your desert cracked lips

so I rub my fingers

along Nobody’s sepulcher

until the pads are moist

and slather my own thin mouth

because I cannot reach across

from where I am stuck, waist deep

in front of Nobody,

to slap it on your face.

Instead we should forget

that we were wicks

that we were still

that we were tall and slender

that we believed to burn

to be intoxicating enough

that we’d become smoke

that we’d float among constellations

and laugh when we looked up

Orion’s manly skirt.

But we melted with the wax

and are stuck

pretending to ignore the other

though each our flame shines

brightest. 

©2014 Lex Vex

what the rope on that tree saw

what the rope on that tree saw

gravity lulled the swing back

the swing of greying board

the fraying rope on the

right, discolored and cold

was no twin to the twine

of the left

hand side

she dangled

limp and gaunt

left to haunt the hanging tree

the day the broker moved

into the tree’s backyard

he laced his hands

in burlap and

tossed a line into deep fog

in surprise the line grew

taught and the rope

wound like witches fingers smelling

of ivy and gingersnaps

she beckoned and her wolfhound sang

so he took the line

and he took the swing

and snipped the seat

in the wind the rope’s hair

unfurled and when broker’s happy feet

blended over each

other he tripped up vertical

his toes dangling and

the careless twine

cleaved against her weight

to hold another lover

aloft with molted wings

when it was done

and another broker

moved into the backyard

the splayed fingers of rope

were forced to prayer

and she bore another child. 

©2014 Lex Vex

Schrodinger's Voicemail

Schrodinger's Voice-mail

the girl next door tap tap
taps on her screen
judgement pours through me
when my own
buzzes on my thigh

my blood turns
the light of stars through each vein and artery
diffuses the nector
of the spider leaving me
cold

how am i supposed to know
if the static electric
of my phone
is joy buzzer
or taser?

it's like you know
when you phone
and their voice
cascades through your palms
which really are sieves tactile and misplaced

It's only when the voicemail litters your mailbox,
and you wait, poisoned by
the serpent of caller I
D that i realize
i wait with Schrodinger's voicemail


at the bottom of the stairs
when bell's voice has died
an art department atrocity
stares vacantly in sloppy voyeurism
as my finger fails to linger on the delete key

If I never press the play
button
I will feel
your veins are still
the flavor of fresh gasoline

©2014 Lex Vex

Goodnight Moose

As a side note,
Formatting this was a douche
and a half.







































©2014 Lex Vex

a flah khu uff foe neem es