That's a voice

What Happens Remains

Expect a flood
of lukewarm curiosity.
Between the blurs,
in the middle of the road,
people struggle with certainty.

I caught myself
becoming
conscious,
slowly slowly.

Listen to the dead babies
sing naked annihilation.
It's your thing--horror.
Get out your metaphors.
It's time to change the world.
Curse this postmodern life--
Obama, flarf, transmigration.
You should be laughing.

Whose business is it
a few souls hustle,
juggle, straddle
blah, blah, blah,
regurgitations.
Bullshit
stretches
epiphany.

The whistle's blowing
morning
light across our legs.
Time.

Why should we care?
No other has the power.

Pinned by an absent god,
I can have it both ways.
Hot and cold exist
because I don't belong here.

Summer Storm

Giddy, the wind chugs,
clatters the shutters,
then wolf-whistles wild
through the tiny crack

in the blackened pane.
Like a tornado,
white lace curtains wheel,
climb my naked flesh

to purr in my ear,
bringing strange comfort
from thick, August heat
and angry gods too.