Richard and I Play with the Dead

the red tide has left us.
At his lips, the scooped eye of a fish

catches the starlight like a butterfly
knife opening a boy’s palm.

A smoking pasture of weekenders
with zilch left to lose

browse churro stands on the boardwalk.
The casino doors are guillotines.

The skyline is a hairless dog.
In our wake seagulls clatter like dented cans

strung to the exhaust pipe of a limousine –
its rear window: a shrinking rectangle.

A silhouette embrace. A sip of champagne.
A world map on a prison cell wall.

Thunderbird Inn

The desk lady repeats
herself like a telephone menu

as I diagram the fire
exits and security cameras.

The motel pool is cerulean.
The hot tub is out of order.

Richard squints in the reversal image
of himself. A little more.
I scissor his rattail

and sponge his neck.
We button our thrifted florals.
My tongue is a garden slug.

I flick cards at a soft banana
as Richard twiddles the antennas

for the evening weather report
like a forklift operator.

He twists biblical spliffs.
Curtains warble in the television light.

Each siren is a doom spiral.
The highway exhales like a horse.

Image © Jericl Cat