Meta-Ecstatic

-Corwin Jones

She hovers by the old Dos Equis

That’s caught at the edge of the reeds.

My face is rough in the mirror. And sharp.

When you sleep next to me,

do I leave tar on your cheek?

It’s stuck in the stubble. Dry shaving again: cold, and sharp. I slip.

Red sputters across the bowl—

thin, fast; thick, slow; cut, dried.

Paper towels and hand soap. How long until the gate?

Sweater's stuck to my wrists.

Four hits in the stall—

clear and sweet, but

sharp and

sharp and

sharp.

I need an analog.

You see a lot of shooting stars

over Indiana.

God’s half-burnt cigarettes;

they don’t belong there.

Blink;

Volkswagen Golf, dark teal—maybe more of a sea-green, or a lake. Two-thousand-and-seven or -eight. (The headlights are different.) Driver, passenger. Long hair, short. Two bags seatbelted in the back.

Blink;

negative constellation in the airport porcelain.

Five red dots, streaming down,

staring back,

blink.

Frost air and ash roll, slow, billowing up. He’s clay—now Adam—wheezing as He chokes.

Flick;

faint comet.

Step; twist.

They don’t belong here; too high and spread too thin, these stars hung up

with ancient string. Soon they’ll hit the pavement in a burst of sparks. No clouds tonight; you can hear them.

It is still raining—I’m soaked to the skin.

You hallucinate a man in points of light? A man!

I’m wearing four layers—I’m soaked to the skin.

Vain Prometheus, remember this:

Your liver heals itself, but please keep it in the quart-sized bag.

The butane’s out; Bic failed me twice today. I wipe my forehead.

She looks for food—

for something sweet—

but she only finds debris.