I was disoriented by our monad of Judeo-Christian bees.
The slight curve of my back makes a depression in the sand when I breathe in.
You were the amputee in the Bible reciting Freudian slips in the honeymoon suite.
I tried to carry you through the enchanted forest like in that Russian movie.
I couldn’t tell if you were sleeping or gnawing on my hand.
The shadow of the palm tree tiptoed across your face as the vodka dribbled down your chin.
Once we reached the PBS station, your womb collapsed.
Each vowel was a rat darting out from under the oven.
I placed my hand on your surrealist manifesto but it felt like a stale marshmallow.
I poured my otherness into a thimble for you.
You erased the seams of a baseball by psychoanalysis.
The vampire next door was not a reliable narrator.
We lost count every time we wrote down your name on a piece of wax and prayed for a sharper image.
Our porcelain figure dove to the bottom of the ocean.
You confused a sigh of relief with the martyrdom of a toy soldier on the battlefield.
During a long night of insomnia, you knitted a loincloth for a dilapidated penis.
You fell in with the wrong crowd.
Their body count was your religion.
You were baptized in a used tire.
You were saved on the strip.
You promised me that there were lava flows on the dark side of the moon.
I acted on your insufficient faith.
You and I believed in one common carnival of flesh.
It would take some time before the word of God turned into confetti.
The beat of my heart was a mongrel yelping at a siren.
A spinning earth has no cadence.
It shatters against the first overflowing grain of dust it encounters.
I fell in love with grammar from my sarcophagus.
My bar mitzvah was a knee-jerk reaction.
Every time I made a journal entry, I adapted your last breath for the screen.
It was a white doily with coffee stains.
I cheated on you with a bowl of noodles.
They were so wet and warm.
A flurry of palpitations deep in the forest.
The slight curve of my back makes a depression in the sand when I breathe in.
You were the amputee in the Bible reciting Freudian slips in the honeymoon suite.
I tried to carry you through the enchanted forest like in that Russian movie.
I couldn’t tell if you were sleeping or gnawing on my hand.
The shadow of the palm tree tiptoed across your face as the vodka dribbled down your chin.
Once we reached the PBS station, your womb collapsed.
Each vowel was a rat darting out from under the oven.
I placed my hand on your surrealist manifesto but it felt like a stale marshmallow.
I poured my otherness into a thimble for you.
You erased the seams of a baseball by psychoanalysis.
The vampire next door was not a reliable narrator.
We lost count every time we wrote down your name on a piece of wax and prayed for a sharper image.
Our porcelain figure dove to the bottom of the ocean.
You confused a sigh of relief with the martyrdom of a toy soldier on the battlefield.
During a long night of insomnia, you knitted a loincloth for a dilapidated penis.
You fell in with the wrong crowd.
Their body count was your religion.
You were baptized in a used tire.
You were saved on the strip.
You promised me that there were lava flows on the dark side of the moon.
I acted on your insufficient faith.
You and I believed in one common carnival of flesh.
It would take some time before the word of God turned into confetti.
The beat of my heart was a mongrel yelping at a siren.
A spinning earth has no cadence.
It shatters against the first overflowing grain of dust it encounters.
I fell in love with grammar from my sarcophagus.
My bar mitzvah was a knee-jerk reaction.
Every time I made a journal entry, I adapted your last breath for the screen.
It was a white doily with coffee stains.
I cheated on you with a bowl of noodles.
They were so wet and warm.
A flurry of palpitations deep in the forest.
|
Jose Arturo Flores has self-published three books of poetry on Amazon. He is a graduate of the writing program at California Institute of the Arts. He was published in season 7 of the online journal, Peach Mag.
|
