ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

Batman in Berlin

Walking along Surf Avenue I see the Berlin night
scurry from the headlight of a Citroën.

When I turn the next corner,
Batman casts a shadow over moonlit Gotham
and I know I am back in the city,
where footsteps echo and shadows loom,
and climbing down the stairs
to the cool sand beneath the boardwalk,
I am Orpheus descending,

down on my knees before you can say blow me.

Here in the dark I slake my thirst
for lies that taste like truth.

Here in the dark, the Heliconian Muses
thrust the vatic staff down my throat
and I assume my poetic mantle.

Here in the dark you press me against the pylon.

I come in my jeans.
I come close to love.



Instead of Names

Now I wait in familiar locations—
the park, the promenade,
any place I think you might find me.

When you arrive, I sidle up—
no words offered by way of introduction,
just a lie I tell with my eyes,
to grant permision or deny it,
to hide my shame at being self-absorbed,
cobbled together of disparate parts—
posture, hair and nails, clothing.

For a while you stay and I think it's what I wanted—
to kneel before you beneath the trees,
beside the dark river, under icy stars.

When you leave, you leave me wanting more.
Long and cold as the river this night goes on.

Walking, I listen to Lady in Satin
till the stars fade and the gray morning
washes your dusty image from my mind.



After

You come late.
The others have gone
and left me here
expecting no one.
I wasn't waiting for you.
The waiting is over,
but leaving isn't easy.

It must look strange to you,
this world
of darkened corners,
hands and knees.
It only gets colder
after midnight.
The crackheads never go home.

How young you are—
I smell it on your hair,
feel it in the flush of your skin.
I wanted you only
for the usual cut and run;
but now that you're here,
I don't want you to go.

See where you have come—
this is a different time;
this is after.
A few of us remain,
but nobody knows
if we are survivors
or merely hangers on.

You still have time—
there's no glory here
and some say no love,
where bodies are counted
and sheets are burned.
Go back the way you came.
Go home and sleep.