Don’t call me by name.
Don’t call me anything.
Let me slip through nights and days, brush
the tarnished moon,
like clouds through city sky.
I believe only in people
and their dreams.
I lost my soul a while ago and I thank you
Monsieur Sartre, for I gained faith within.
You allowed me to float through windows and doors
unknown to all who possess bad faith and
forgotten souls. I now roam amongst those extinct
questions of purpose and repose.
This puddle on the street reflects the contours of my face.
You see, silver––
from the moon I follow sleep.
Upon seeing my reflection
the end of the world surrounds me.
Cold, quiet, I close my eyes
and allow myself to sink
into the dark tar of existence, to sleep,
to dream until the day they unearth the bones
of this mortal coil.
The black peppercorns, tiny charcoal stones burn and sting
her palms. She pours them onto the floor,
she sees henna vines adorned with fern leaves
twisting around her fingers, their stalks
run away from her heart, curl into
little nautilus shells, tea-colored and resting at
the borders of her bleeding.
Neither of us could read them, but
we knew what they meant.
She says, “All that I touch I feel push inside my head.”
Behind thick, throbbing layers of firm sensation,
billions of blind albino arachnids fire and pulse their silky
desperate and relentless, across one another.
She felt it coming, that muffled scream
clawing inside the chamber of her skull, demanding
an immaculate release.
Finally, their message is complete.
A mosaic of desire and memory,
dreams flash with foreign landscapes.
Two candles burn: same wax, different wicks.
You believe you can somehow think tomorrow through,
prepare yourself, know what to expect;
but it doesn’t always pan out.
It’s amazing more people don’t go insane
with so much changing.
Like your friend who stripped in that electronics store,
and walked around with his arms out-stretched so that
he could save everyone from drowning in the coming flood.
He needed to carry us to higher ground, he said.
While browsing the hardware store today,
I felt a rumble in the earth. I heard a thunder rolling toward
I swear to God the ocean receded so far from shore
that fish were left flapping on the beach, gasping for water.
I began to unbuckle my pants and held my breath
when a clerk asked if I needed any help.
Yes, I do.
I need you.
Jonathan Stone lives in Portland, Oregon with
his wife and son. He has a B.A. in English Literature, and a
passion for poetry. His most recent publication was in the avant-guard
magazine, Pathos, out of Portland.