Threshed violet spun through flush of rose and lilac, braced
in an innervation of volante tendencies
to be under pecan tree rows and not any alley this could be
any alley half-paved street without overhead
skin that is overhead light that is not stars that could
make clear for me curb or skin I can feel well
enough under my skin but against? Cold
in this dark overheard skin I can butt against.
Noble diode bright!
from a scrapyard is lost,
mended for use
with a box standard as it had never been used
before bright Io
hidden for pattern
left for curb,
firm concrete. Alleyways rescue.
A tiny black man at the apex of a bright red curtain,
too huge, the folds angling in behind him but high
overhead tragically straight, pinned to a brass rail running
the length of the stage right to left like Japanese
poetry rolling lush
For money! For Science! Silencio, Science!
Succumb! Felt for scrubber and getter
holding electric thoughts in wet nerves
thoughts slipped so long the wires slake
ions’ firm patter as I loose left
to right like a line rolling up
like a line rolling up
Travis Hedge Coke writes a weekly online column, Patricia Highsmash, and is the editor of two volumes of Along the Chaparral and associate editor of Sing: Poetry from the Indigenous Americas. Of mixed descent, their work has appeared courtesy of Gargoyle, beestung, The Comics Cube, China Central Television, University of Arizona Press, and a MySpace TV show with Chris Kattan. They are thankful for animals and plants inside and outside while self-isolating and recently completed a free, online visual album, low fruit.