cold cereal blackberries in the richness of tv tag sky weathered boards left red in a leaf after the green land occupies the thought of ticks buried deep in the flesh pumping a flooded basement

in the heart of the matter concealed pictures of dead relatives drinking ice tea hunting for wet creatures stepping on stones across creek pebble pools filling with crayfish walking into spider webs

picking up daddy longlegs by the legs and flinging the sweet scent of fresh cut hay resting on hay bales over treetops the high pitched whine of a saw blade drops octaves into wood

red dirt throwing a new baseball on the roof struck by lightning ears ringing deaf japanese beetle june bug comic book frogs in the darkness whippoorwill whippoorwill whippoorwill

little white church with large black voices rising on hands clapping rhythms saturday evening worship filling the landscape with jesus eternal summer tadpole moths bang against the white-light of window screens

tossing tea and chocolate chip cookies in predawn paper route roll up the car windows to keep out dirt-road dust peanut butter sandwich trees slowly absorb rusted barbed wire bounding down mountains of sawdust leaching acrid rivulets of dark tinted tannin

pokeberry purple poison tin cans full of bullet hole chickens scratching in the dirt surrounding live and encroaching green stained soles of barefoot fireflies pulsing florescent yellow in mason jars covered with foil tops punched with pencil holes

matchbox cars in the dirt window fan swoosh of passing cars muffled in humid night doppler effect national geographic cutting grass climbing trees front porch bear yellow light-bulb leather headed buzzards riding thermals above road-kill baking on soft asphalt

cutoff jeans pulling weeds gnat clouds and red dirt clumped sweat loud hands ticking on a midnight watch laid upon the dresser basketball goal ply-board backboard on twin pole 4 x 4s plastic car and tank models swimming at summer camp

can i have a cricket on a string? can i have a cricket on a string?

Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2014 V Perrotti

         the monolith beckoned, as if it were a full moon
   glowing under solitary streetlamp, in green light
surrounded by looming tanks of fuel oil; a hole punctured through creamy darkness
   high on an iron-grate alter, to be approached head-on via metal stairs

         while watching late night movies “Soylent green is made of people.”
   when a boy’s mind is full of girls, football, and comic books
   before adult onset of self induced stress and worry
we hatched our plan — my friend and i; during a sleepover at his house
we determined to worship the monolith, by partaking of the sacrament

         enveloped in the warmth of summer’s night; long after midnight
    we venture out across the field, with bottle opener and plastic cups in hand
sneakers crunch; dried grass nicking brown legs exposed by cut-off jeans
  radiant light destination, a beacon at the end of our tunnel vision
low clang of metal sound under feet, as we trudge along the walkway

        moving into eerie glow of the streetlamp, we are exposed in the spotlight
   arriving in the presence of our god — the nectar is now within reach
there they are! like jewels aligned in a column of cold — behind the tall, narrow glass door
   bottles resting on their sides, requiring coinage to release them from the machine

        held steady in place by metallic grip, we emptied their contents
  while one held open the door, the other went to work popping off tops
  cola and grape nehi gushing forth as if from a garden hose
  and we greedily held out our cups, to receive the liquid candy

        gulping down with sticky hands and t-shirts; in gluttony
   time before video surveillance cameras existed on every corner
never to appear on youtube; drinking deep and topping-off our cups
   we hastily beat a retreat back under the cover of darkness

sleep would not come that night; our restless bodies lying on couches
   staring into the future, long after the three tv networks had signed off the air
        imagining the surprised looks on the faces of the workers, the next day
   as they dropped coins into a machine full of dead soldiers

Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2013 V Perrotti