One Hot Minute
Twenty seconds:
The bee stings before you see it. At first you think something vital has exploded inside of your gut, then you see that you have leaned against a bee on the potting bench and have been stung on the belly. The bee drops to the ground, leaves the stinger with sharp end embedded in your belly and gooey yellow bee remains on the other end.
Forty seconds:
Breathe in the dizzy scent of wisteria. Down the block comes a boom-box car, temptation rhythm overcomes other traffic sounds, brings the city closer in, consumes
the back yard peace and even the wisteria. Under your hand, the bee sting hardens and swells, the burning localizes while panic dies down, remembering you are not allergic to bees.
Sixty seconds:
The bass-beat decides not to linger, it is too early for the high school to let out and nothing interesting is happening around here. Slowly it moves away, one last look just to be sure, then out of earshot to the next potential hot spot. This is how long it takes the bee to die.
Creep
At night in the bare-cell
corners of the soul where we
lick at the questions of what
it means to be, to be fair
to be done
to be overheard
in a stray photo
to be obscured behind
an unfamiliar glass
When there is a choice
do I fly
do I go to sea
am I rude, cold breath
like razor edge,
do I choose to prolong
such nights when night
is not a concise event
but
a parade of minutes,
the drowsy sound of
their creep when fear of
sleep is surrogate
for fear of death
If there is no knowing
between death and sleep,
when we fall between
will the notes of delirium
change key
will the echo chambers
of these bare-cell corners
keep us enclosed
will these notes
keep us
when
we die
and when we wake
maybe
we will sleep
when we die and die
when we sleep
either way
the delirium
is the
same.
Flights, Issue Thirteen, August 2024
Flight of the dragonfly 