by Matthew Harrison


Its image could be anything.

You get the picture.  It burns

with atmosphere.  It lives, consumes

consumers like cinema, a radiant

blood bag for donors big, then bigger

to a mass crave.  You stomach it. 

To end it you think incineration,

but only a slow freeze will do. 

You know, says a cool boy 

to constellations.  He looks away

from the girl behind the 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 crickets in the backyard.  The parents

stay asleep. The girl is just 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 common craving, a blob

soon to be.  His monstrous heart beats

in a drive-in B movie.  Give in to it,

and you grow with horrifying romance.

And if that is what it is, then

this is just an ordinary night.