Tarnished and solitary
microscope the gods to the bone
the rubbermaid ache getting more desperate every day
darkened spirits grow more onyx
with each ocean passing of the sun
there is no carnival high-beam in my life
only shadows coaxing another sparse scream
when I walk through the wooded lands
clutch the trees and their dirty hands
the reeds like spears, like knives
a natural morsel of Easter Jesus candy
cutting the jugular jamboree in the egg garden
the neon blood spills silently onto the plastic grass
the bees and the flies and the gnats gather for a swim
they don’t recognize that the moon’s fluids
are completely full of marshmallow burns
of the oblong and stretched native aliens
and Earth leaves them rancid and shaky
someday
any day
every day, all the way
flipping through the advanced-tech screen
washing away locked-down dreams
with laser beams and rabbit feet
to just dream inside a dream
where reality oozes through so sparkly distorted
yet so real and prophetic
the greasy heat like silver fast-food cell
the hotness of commerce rising off the souls of the unblessed
the air of a constant panic
what does waking and moving mean
anything, or delicious delusions again
sleep baby your pumped-up dreams
pay at the pump baby dream of sleep
broken down bag of checkers and bones
paralyzing love attacks, hybrid kisses
a swift kick to gravity and we all fall home
no rhyme or reason remains
I am sparklers in heat
a hose without a hand
a car driven by someone sleeping
a pounding at the door that will never be heard
lost and cast away on sand island at sea
like a dime store comic book dug out of an attic
blow off the dust
wipe the cover clean
what does it mean
merely trapezoidal trash
lonely counsel with the wind by an open window
the bees curve and dive
they make life, they churn spice
honey drips down broken wings
tears caress the memories of a painful way
pain inside out like custard mirrors
lavish buckets of discontent
the meat of a green cactus with flowered eyes
pierced by the thorn of the sun god
begging big blossoms to bloom
and then they are done
one last flaccid cough of color
and a gentle float to the earth
to disappear
to turn to dust or rust or unwilling lust
to be trampled by a new life
maybe not so nice
carrots or cartoons
negative nothing a laugh
negative nothing on a salad ranch
nothing for miles and miles
means anything close to porch kisses
pressing to this hollow can
this rusting skin
this decades-old man of aluminum foil
stretched thin and stuffed full of it
in a nation that loves to hate
in a world longing to dance and escape
in a universe of grapefruit and stars
memorizing every tick of time there ever was.

By

Aaron Echoes August