Poetry

by Darrell Epp

A Fistful of Dynamite

what's up with the wendy's drive-thru the morning

after a holiday, and what's up with stars, imagine

having so many arms. i meant to say, starfish,

and i meant to tell you something else at the

corktown tavern in 1999. my dream diary's caked

in blood. i mean ketchup. i mean my brain's not

a computer, it's a beehive, hear it humming from

lobe to lobe. being above ground's wearisome

but the alternative is worse. and what good's a

heart that's not been broken–that's like winning

a porsche and never bothering to crash it. the line

between treeline and sky is where the miracles

leak in, and usually stitched so tight not even

algae can squeeze through. that's why i never

leave home without a really big crowbar and a

fistful of dynamite. time's up! says the prophet,

but in woodland park's tent city there's nothing

but time, options narrow with every stopwatch

tick. pancake makeup sky smeared with fly ash

and powdered slag from dofasco's arc furnace,

cookie cutter cannon fodder, escape hatches

left untried, wedding rings lost in the weeds.

the sclerotic neon's a pentecostal vision and

no matter what i say, i mean something else.

–•–

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