Thoughts Collected
BROOKE BASTIE

II.
Wisps of nighttime
plumage flopped atop his head,
messy and abstract,
like a crown fit for a snow globe.
Coffee stained epidermis was exposed
on the greater part of his figure
with the exception of his kind snake eyes
and of course
the parts hidden by straggly
oil painted fur.
 
III.
 
He speaks like the river after rain
white noise rocking me into a stupor.
His cadence like a
hollowed out gourd keeping time.
He never quite finishes his words,
just phases from thought to thought;
advancing before comprehension.
He lingers & waits
everyone is prey during dialogue
hunted during monologue
And eulogized
with an acrid riddance.
 
IV.
 
We danced like fog,
a single puff awakening
a grandfather clock
and getting tangled in the bells,
conducting our own
fox-trot melody. A fluid haze
twisting with the sky sparklers
and skyscrapers, careful not to domino.
So he led me out over the sea
where he returned to the
clouds and I drowned.
 
V.
 
He’s made of wax
with a dry wick for a heart.
Unable to light.
 
Dry stained cow hide
Filled with incomplete promises
Clutched in his right hand.
 
And the left hand clutched
Green notes of oxidized copper
Pseudo-Lady Liberty
 
Perpetually
posed as the image of the
American Dream.