FOUR POEMS

Hellbent on swaying the herd with pineapple ales
and a maze of leis, we celebrated the arrival of planes
in a way that said “hey, I’m stoked you didn’t crash
into the Pacific or a caldera or catch a wayward axe
to the back of your head somewhere along your journey.”

The calendar’s a stalker with candy for the mass of
masked men and women so eager for something sweet.
Each volcano is a bulging rivet of crust, a colossal zit
ready to burst and goo us all at once—it could come
at any moment now, like a wedge issue at church.

Like a beam of twilight refracting through a dusty
corridor covered in sharp, deceptive shadows.
Cut through the white noise with four-lettered words
and no matter what it was that you actually said, 
I’m sure to respond quickly with “I love you, too.”

We rarely break from our daily minutia to ponder 
all the civilizations built, like our own, along all-
important oceanfront property, during dry epochs. 
Lower ocean levels means more land, different 
coastlines. Now, those entire countries might be 
over a hundred miles into the blue on our maps. 
Once submerged, they were wrenched slowly back 
and forth by currents and tides until every carved 
and stacked stone was redispersed like sandcastles 
disappearing in the night. Every bit of pitted, 
imperfect pottery remade back into mud. It’s one thing 
to be nihilistic about the Sun’s inevitable supernova, 
as though humans will be around a tenth of the way there. 
Sure. Eternity is not in store for Earth or anything 
we construct on its skin. It's worse to submerge 
yourself with the countless billions living their lives 
and creating their art and finding their own work-
life balance to keep themselves both sane and safe. 
Some destroyed in cataclysms, others, like us, 
petering out in a society that could be on its way out 
or in a rut—saying only time will tell with a laugh, 
knowing that’s the worry of future generations. 
Until it’s upon us like the tide cutting off clammers 
a mile from shore in mud that deepens with every step 
back toward what passes for solid land today.

I.
The barren coast has been bitten
by scouring tempest burst 
from the belly of the open ocean
and cold-charred by the pale cherry of a sun. 

II.
Anything proudly propped
upon the promontory is summarily
demolished by the slow gale 
like by a dire prophesy and not
an emboldened Death grimly reaping.

III.
Fear flavored saliva drips
on the forbidden fruit’s flesh
fresh from the lips of illuminates
clothed in the immaculate garb
that journeys from limb to mangy limb.

IV.
The wind whorls a mortified pirouette
as it plucks the day’s polish
from pulsating atoms queasy
with their own renewed reverence.

V.
Rushed minutes shatter
into shimmering instants slick
with a slouched indifference
that slurs in spirals of utopian whimsy.
The zephyr dismembers,
it wrecks all icons so carefully wrought
without even a courtesy yelp.

Their hair had the bounce 
and fawn of a fresh flan—
 
avocado toast eye shadow
and cool mint lipstick lined
 
with almost-black cocoa
like an after-dinner Andes.
 
A kale smoothie smoothly
cooed me to the curves
 
of dress fabric tight enough
to heat them sous-vide.
 
Tiramisu shoe beads 
gradients of gorgeous brown.
 
A waft of soft strawberries
infuses the angel hair breeze.
 
My stomach loudly pines 
as they leave street for diner.