Harm's Way

(quiet with music)

Cicadas purr behind foliage.
The same things keep happening.
Tonight I’ve stolen a silver car
I am really good at driving
drinking clear West Indies rum,
clear music tropical moiré
surfacing the windshield
like a pattern untoward
trying to get out of me
platinum massacres of sorts.
Revving it, as if I hadn’t
already said I had, some
passenger says, with the
strange cadence of a prayer,
I thought you stole this car.
Ferns in the rear views jump
pylons and we receive
undeserved glares in drive-thrus
and looks from innocence
at bus stop shelters where handles
of grocery bags get grasped
by hands and the nothing
I could do to do nothing
anymore ridicules me,
but by the looks
of the car’s speedometer,
one can put their money in the bank
that these numbers mean something,
something is being done.
Delicate flame-scarred neck skin
shiny as a pin is reflected in the gimcrack
console plastic, a derby lap
accident too obvious put down
by a nepenthe and the current
nervousness met head on
by popular antacid without effect.
To see where I stand, my passenger
emerges from an open window
like a damned butterfly to walk the earth
prematurely, deformed by rushing,
then more grub than finished.
This should not be happening,
but I don’t know why.
Cosmic Latte
Jerimee Bloemeke
Bloemeke_cover

Cosmic Latte

Jerimee Bloemeke

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Cosmic Latte cover

Cosmic Latte

Jerimee Bloemeke


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