THE BLOB
Its image could be anything.
You get the picture. It burns
with atmosphere. It lives, consumes
consumers like cinema, radiant
blood bag throbbing big, bigger
till a mass crave. You stomach it.
To end it you think incineration,
but only a slow freeze will do.
You know, says the cool boy
to constellations. He looks away
from the girl behind the white
house in Hollywood. You know,
plenty of people with their right
minds thought they saw things
that didn’t exist. He thinks of what
could be, innocent as the crickets
in the backyard. The parents are
asleep. The girl is always there: the star
system implies her. You know, like flying
saucers, the light just right in the angle
of imagination. He turns and takes her
in, alert with factory urge, gobbling
blob. His monstrous heart blah-blahs
in a drive-in B movie. Give in to it,
you grow with horrifying romance.
And if that is what it is, this is
just an ordinary night.
IT IS POURING SOMEWHERE IN THE UNIVERSE
and there is a reason
why wine is used
for communion. You kill
the bottle to fall
away like a New Year
cork that dissolves
in garden mint. Or body
emptied so transported
to a dark landfill outside
the city they say never
sleeps, lying
in cool soil, in shards
of moon and plastic
parts with everybody
else’s unexceptional
dreams of a cathedral
arch lighting
the critically acclaimed
last show of the final
season, of a star
worthy of all stars
and the quiet river
stirring constellations
or bodies in hot beds
who drink the sweat
of the city evaporated
into breath, who hear
the ovation and fizzle
off to sleep hoping
it is nothing, it is only
the long hoped for
rainstorm with an extra-
terrestrial name.
Glint Literary Journal 