The Fieldstone Review

You Know Too Much About Flying Saucers

I dreamed a hole through her head, where blue
cathoray spilled out over space and time,

ten seconds of my stare, my eyes pretending to look
at the red Coca-Cola sign flashing up behind her head,
blinking on and off in reds and whites over and over:
Drink Coke — You Dope!

People say we are like Siamese twins, but really
we are more like Tiananmen Square, 1989;
six murdered sextuplets on a Sunday;

You're crazy. We can't be together, she says — this is
every time right before we go and remarry down in old
Mexico;

I love the crazy flashing skies over Acapulco, an
emerald stain the way George Stevens got to do it
on film,

both of us with bare feet, dancing under moonlight,
over broken bottles of glass, arms flailing, waving madly;

every day another séance to stop the Nuclear bombs,
all night long as we pray against the missiles landing
in someone else's backyard —

wet and on fire; a wave, ten thousand surfers going out
from the storm atop another tsunami; I can taste it! I can bury it
in the morning with my foot down to the floorboard;

water, napalm, flying about; I will fly; sea turtles flowing
in my veins to the other side of the earth; my mouth: it's
got a direct line to Jehovah's red ear, splitting my own
chest open to get down to that vodka with a straw;

swinging, dancing, spinning, tango atop the cobblestones,
both of us shivering along the gold spires, our souls being
pushed up hard against doors, in heavenly colors, azure-blue,
emerald, until we are falling one thousand years into the future —

down to the ghost of your words as they whisper out to me:
"divided together; and so we fall apart."