by J.C. Mari

it’s not always
a lightning caress
ending with you
a mass of writhing stopped
for children to poke with sticks;

far less memorable it could be
a something that smothers
something that must
remain un-smothered
for the vital function of heart
and coherence of limb…

i watch her wipe
the dew off her windshield
and decide that i hate her

then change my mind
and declare it’s
really her pity i profess,
proclaim
vehemently under my breath
that  it’s
only her banality i detest,
but

her banality is my banality too
and if that
were to be removed
i don’t think
there would be much left.

insanity butterflies bark in the early winter sun

Buddhist monks burn in the streets
like nightmare flowers raping light

and while this summer’s
starting to slip away
there’s still the soft thunder
of this folded-and- shredded sun
like snow over a city
that doesn’t give a fuck.

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J.C. Mari resides in FL. He’s authored “the sun sets like faces fade right before you pass out“.