Apocalypse Dreams
Pt. I
a handful of unknown faces--familiar strangers--mixed
with recent visitors of my flat
(like the faerie friend with the voice of a man, the proud & queer
Ms. Bobo-Dancy herself, who taught me how
to glitter everyone in the dance hall)
come together to swim.
we tread water in canals, naked along
the European street whose frames are
pastel towers, elaborate easter-egg homes.
untouched elation sits in our chests,
a rare, extraordinary organ.
our legs tango in cyclic waves,
we do the dead fish float in the rising water.
when we relax our eyelids, our bodies are carried
right to a high school gymnasium.
the dance continues, takes our legs
down the stairs, we duck against
descending ceilings, to reach the blue mats in the basement
where we stretch our limbs fully, infinitely--
(until gravity bickers).
the blonde lady in front instructs the flow--
until
Sirens shriek in routine breaths
(the alarm we prepared to disregard in school drills
presents itself).
dirty smoke rushes down the stairs to play tag,
my eyes dash, but no doors,
all the fibers in my thighs work together to perform the sprint,
across the tiled floor, up the crowded stairs
but flames rule the spiral staircase
i suck in air, hold it, as i rush against the cloud of grey, the block.
fellow stretchers surround me, but i reach the door right in time,
I look back. I am Lot’s wife.
Against my will, I look back.
I watch the orange killer strike--
In one motion, he absorbs the school
The girls behind me on the stairs
become walking bodies of fire.
Pt. 2
Tonight we are at the ocean,
the boy from Budapest, my father, & I.
We stand with toes on the shore
as waves gently turn in with the aid of the Moon.
It is winter, yet the ocean is bathwater
under Midnight’s sky, under the rickety boardwalk,
We push off into the deep water.
The boy points at the scarlet seahorse latched on my arm like a tattoo,
Through the clear water, a stingray sways, spots my legs, &
chases me back to the sand,
my heartbeat runs faster than my feet.
Back on the sand that starts to growl,
quiver, faster, and
the Earth hiccups, an awkward sonic thunder,
then it vomits up seawater, with much vigor,
--an epic volcanic belch--
only over the ocean,
I am untouched.
But the boardwalk,
It acts like a sewer
The water rushes through its pipes
I see one man on the walk,
a tall, dark-haired stranger with a top hat, suitcase, & a story
The water sweeps him up
and he drops straight down,
his bottom plops onto the shore
and his arms fall right off like a plastic doll with removable parts.
A smile strikes his face,
Is it the satisfaction of a future in disability funds?
The humor in being knocked down by random burps of the Earth?
The random vomits that take us with it.
His suitcase is out of sight, and
I am being transported to another new home,
with purple walls and a shag green carpet.
I am yawning at the apocalypse.
Pt. 3
August 1992, Miami
Off the highway ramp to Miami,
Clusters of cars perched as birds in the treetops
Like baby robins, some shimmied back and forth—preparing to fly
Telephone poles and oak trees did the tango ‘til they dropped
Like unwanted vomit, they dispersed among the grass and streets
The twin palm trees from Carol’s backyard spilled into the in-ground pool
Her once-favorite spot—they will forever be swimming. The sun, the only
light in town, radiated in waves, darkness to light to darkness; the stench from
lack of running water permeated the air. Carol had phoned the bank earlier; her untouched safe deposit box was the reason for her trip. She parks her Buick
in the spot with the least ashes, and walks towards the bank, NCNB.
Its walls were scattered among the cement, the teller’s desks have vanished.
She eyes the security guard sitting (in uniform) in a grey folding chair near the entrance. “How may I help you, ma’am?” the words exit his lips as if it’s a normal
day at the bank. She tells him her business, and starts towards the back, but triggers the guard... “Enter the front door, ma’am!” Her feet guess where that used to be, start over,
She gathers her savings, leaves out “the door.” A sharp smile crosses the guard’s face.
How long will the it last?