TOWN IS ON FIRE, SO I’M THINKING OF GOING
Someone contact the manager,
the deluxe lawn of mankind is on fire!
Listen, the scene-eaters pay in rubles
or crumbs of nut grain.
The benevolent hookers
play hospitality shakedown
or mental breakdown.
They mean harm.
The spiritual hotline for stinging
childhoods & brokenhearted feathers
An asylum outfit, a dial tone.
Speak to the supervisor
with the Velcro throat and the devotion
to corporate yard, heroic abusers,
who trapped entropy and sold it by the bucket.
The needle skips at satanic thunder––
find yourself owning pleasures,
two silent strangers at the cross roads
make an ordinary day out of quiet love.
GETTING TO YOU
On the banks of
sat the miser who listened and waited.
Let love her in the floodlight.
The dead saints of the boatyard
suggest a battery–––
half life, kid.
I am emptied into the river.
Where can I find you,
skinny flower born from spines.
Eliza Callahan, Age 17, Grade 12, Saint Ann’s School, Gold Key