Skipping Confused Stones
Flinging thin mirror shards at mute seagulls
shitting with mosquitoes over the horizon,
cracked plates spin thru slowed momentary
honey dripping from pulled Van Dyke clouds.
Seagulls are breakfast in the natural world.
Mahogany butter edges bubble. Yolk edges snap
lifting active cigarette smoke-curls, & white horses
boned within revolving fog lick gelatin saltcakes off
onion wrists & shriek in their own throats. They splash
out of illuminated Lake Erie water & panic. His dance
resembles their hooves & anxiety. What can SHE do
but stop, walk backward, return to accumulating
roots instead of easy sand? He’s her perspective.
He’s bipedal & bald. Saturated under noon sun,
a magnified vein of a gold laser catches his elbows
on fire, flaring over hairy arms of water. In her mind
he’s a dangerous, reflective, poetic lunatic. She smiles,
successively moistens. She bounces on the back of their
emotional mutation. He feels he’s made of equine ghosts.
Ron Androla lives in Erie, PA and has been published/publishing in the underground for an era. Some of his books are here. (but you shld ask yr local bookseller or librarian!)