A cluster of skies
musters my soul
to the beat of
darkness falling,
sowing iridescent cities
globing your eyes.
They orbit
dreams,
to burn
their screams
animal
as storms.
Soon, we light
mornings
without
inhibitions,
to the beat of
darkness falling,
gathering
in the center
of an eye,
of something
spiraling
in familiar
rings of destruction
Sonoran Desert Border
A number of lips
take turns on a bottle.
Its mouth gleams
under moonlight,
a door into shadows
cast promiscuously.
The journey to the bottom
is pure thirst.
For now, everything
feels suspended
in clouds of laughter
and tease, hovering
over the edge of nowhere
detained from
laws of somewhere.
The sound
of insects harass
visions of tomorrows
deprived from sleep.
They are framed
in myths, or loosen lips
into a brawl.
Their plots live
on cries
for blood,
the way
their beasts
thrive in
the glory of
sweat and tears.
Our speed assails 45
and the radio fortifies it
in volumes of cool,
unable to cool down
into vanishing points
reared in mirrors
with limited views.
•
They transit spots
so blind
as fury
in surrender
cruising velocities
unhinged
from wheels
deflating
our flatness
in the usual traffic.
•
Their jams
stretch for maps
bruised
with faults
& valleys
rolling
breathless
on your spine.
Bionote
Michael Caylo-Baradi lives in California. You may find his work in The Common, Eclectica, Ink Sweat & Tears, Local Nomad, MiPOesias, Otoliths, Prick of the Spindle, and elsewhere. He reviews books and literary journals for New Pages.
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