By Nicholas Pascarella
balance plates and wires for miles,
hollow sticks, heavy metal doors,
waves of mercy or "go-getchasum, son."
ride these to the entrance
to lay hands on the planet
but appreciate the weight
that the other side is heavy.
the curving laser,
lamp shades under
a blanket of dusk,
the lucky gunner with another life to live,
dancing clouds around
the reflection of the floodlight
hovering above the mind in the sky,
the big looks small, and then big
a blue world removed
from a saliva-red pumping drama,
but a splice of a cube
sloshing with the swells
of turning props
and fire breathing dragons
as it rotates beneath her.