Jellyfish submarines

When the leftovers of focus

dwindle, we expire. City by city the lights

are consumed by longitudes and deluged

by distractions. Speak into your hand

with the one that severs. Each of us who

go to the mega cities, like lampposts seen

from the troposphere, like jellyfish submarines

who stumble through airport security with disposed

smiles and authorized liquids, we let down our

sails and drift through a revolving

door of lovers and loyalty cards.

Strawberry samba

Portuguese man o' war
strawberry you have enough
satellites and karaoke machines to swoon

us in our sofas. You are a current of stings
poisoning the ages with high definition
reality behind the periscopes of cultural

revolution, bombing us from the periphery of focus
toward the puppet shadows of passing time. Lights
flicker through the film house. They eclipse into a golden

mean. And there is a samba from the strawberry
constellation where row boats drift through oval
windows into the accordion fires of the hinter

lands. She sings on her side cranking a broken turn
box as we dance like Russian dolls, one inside
another, through the mannequin

body of a thousand drawers.