once more round
stead, fastened to our fashioned grooves,
we gear up to singe our backsides
yet again on our way around the
unsung, youngest sun we’ve ever known.
glasses rimmed with sediments of time,
fire becomes water in our alchemist bellies,
the gullet blaze reverts temporal debris
to glass, in cruel circadian clockwork.
do we ever endeavor to hydrate enough
for the high duration of time suspended
over hot and hasty horizons,
or do we gasp long and late for the heirloom,
exhausted and afraid to grasp for
luminanary air with empty plates?
a seer took crackled form on our flesh,
and vanished without warning or counsel,
well before our dry eyes could muster
so much as a damp soothsayer’s glance.
I had friends in the
that truly believed
grass was life.
Out here, it was often refreshing,
even if for one measly pint,
to just sit at the local bar
and watch the final call happen,
just because I could.
I sometimes felt so frail
that I feared others can see
my very heart beat
through that itchy,
And yet I’d often wonder
what it would be like
to be born with
I grew my hair down just
so that I’d have something
to tear out in the end.
In the way-back-when,
I was as happy as
a crock-pot clam
boiled, sealed shut
at the lips.
* Previously appeared in DenimSkin Review, 2015*
If you grew motionless in
your upper deck Megabus seat,
because of the Boston chills, and
your inability to turn down a secret-
spiced joint from a station bum,
the top of your Yankee cap threatening
to break through the ceiling as you
begin to question your own mortality
accompanied by a cold sweat rid of
hiding under a minimum four layers,
your last supper of two backpacked
McDonald's burgers and a Sunkist, atop
an open laptop while for a moment
you wish that the universe had taken
its own life as a scapegoat over yours,
hastily eradicating your porn while you
ponder leaving behind riddles and
high hopes for healers and solvers,
setting the song that you'd like to
be found still listening to, to play over
and over, queuing your "I love you" texts,
as your eyes get heavy and instigate a nap,
fearing an aneurism’s silent precision, and
fighting off sleep like the death penalty
all because you would much prefer
a more personal deathbed,
would you drift off?
would you wake up?
would you ever come down?
Brian J. Alvarado is a Puerto-Haitian Bronxite with pieces published or forthcoming in Squawk Back, Trouvaille, Alien Buddha, Beliveau Review, Cajun Mutt, and The Quiver Review, among others. He holds a B.A. in Creative Writing from Susquehanna University.
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