by John Martino
Like trophy trees going once, going
twice, I’m turning visions of you
into everything has a price. Futures
that never arrive. The past a present
permanent vice. Rusty, I guess.
But I told every little star: “This edit
is sick!” A deceptively simple trick.
A genuine fake in fact. Why should
any new observation change
what you already believe to be true?
We are fell thoughts dreaming,
my hands watering ocean blue.
I want to swim inside you.
Your clothes, I mean. Line the walls
with your swimsuit beside me.
Something so light, so sheer,
so utterly see-through, we’d be
unable to sleep for days on end.
Insolvency results from earning
more than you spend. Think before
you weep. Stick to what you know
and leave your opinions wherever
the fuck. Maybe, then, I’d get over
the way your jokes always land
with a punchline of Good luck!
Say it ain’t so, or was it you that
hit that truck? Con artist stacking
the deck in desperate need of a buck?
We approached Albert, and Albert said,
“No,” rolling his r’s. Universe gone flat
as a Big Gulp of cola left out overnight
near the bathroom mirror. Retribution
will arrive like a sudden broach of daylight.
Ten thousand concerns curled up fetal,
alone in bed. To all of you along
for the ride: You shall grow old
as I lick your stomach. Can’t wait to feel
your house inside me, three planets
to the left, a century of light bulbs ago,
laughing our frail names into echo.
John Martino is a writer, educator, and avid traveler currently residing in Hong Kong. Some of his wayward poems have found a home at North Dakota Quarterly, Another Chicago Magazine, Packingtown Review, and Apricity Press, among others. He is the Executive Editor at Home Planet News (homeplanetnews.com).