Pangea

By the crash of tectonic plates did I masturbate to that new picture of you in swimwear
Yea, let us lift our faces skyward and bare our necks
For we march in the shadow of these dying times
Pressed flowers between pages of old library books confessing sex and entropy.

You said you appreciate my fierce admiration
Such glorious brooming of dusty superstitions
The destruction of hesitancy igniting flash paper dreams for illumination
Inhaling signal flare cigarettes outside unmarked bars, we croon holy.

In bed, you explain how night skies glow red with the promise of morning burials
I ask for your baby pictures of smiles drifting into sinkholes of terminal velocity
Instead we recollect, with brains soaked in the ancient brine of sacrifice
How quickly our mouths tasted contracts on the ice-locked shore.

Are we not slaves to the pungent kiss of protein and radio hiss bandwagons
Understanding how this cohesion of particles becomes quietly unglued
How future museums housed in future museums will be devoured by the children of magma
Our lips say shhhh…

Our pressing embrace is the amnesty of the damned crying foul at old paintings of older ruins
But your face is a topographical map of my erosion—shhhh, I am killing you
Our lust is a brilliant pact of troubled hope, your ancient body a patch of thriving weeds
In the path of last chapters—O comfort me, you rogue gravity.

So what if our orgasms and cooking fires be snuffed by the coming floods
Surely we are smoldering theater goers of funny movie light bulb fiestas
Coughing hands onto bruised knees, it’s all so amusing, really
Bathing suits and winter boots colluding with the changing winds of our fickle routines.

Hear how the tide breaks shells under clouds of sea foam rumbling last breath after last breath
Shhhh…should the Earth not spin the sun would kiss so much hell upon our breakfasts
So let us touch with the ingenuity of what we salvage from yesterday’s shipwrecks
I will loosen my grip with the strength of our inevitable undoing, take my hand.

If you die in a plane crash I will remember your skin as a thresher of stories
How we held the keys to oblivion in our bodies—why my capillaries contain broken seashells
Cutting flesh into scarves undulating an aurora borealis of longing into our plans of attending
Or haunting each other’s memorial services.

Sue me if I don’t want your smell on my pillow, stray hairs tangled, lungs heaving changes in weight
Weathering the obscenity of darkness, the rude interruption of light
The moment I see you seeing me seeing you our eyes shall brim seawater
Even if we cannot justify our existence but to say, confidently
That our existence requires nothing of the kind.

 

Photo Credit: Christine A. Banna

Michael Monroe, after being dragged to “some kinda poetry event” by his OkCupid.com date in 2008 (something about semi finals to pick a team for the National Poetry Slam, or whatever), thought this would utterly waste the reluctant electricity needed to amplify the World’s Worst Crap Ever.

Boy was he wrong.

Upon re-hinging his gaping jaw, he concluded that his pursuits as a proficient fire-spinner, jazz pianist and ax juggler were clearly boring, and he’s worked to refine his writing and performance skills ever since (the online dating experiment didn’t last the month). Five years later he leads workshops, wins slams, features on teams and regularly tours New England bringing a memorable blend of poignancy, humor and depth to audiences. He was the Development Director for the 2011 (and now 2013) National Poetry Slam in Boston and is the director of the infamous 365/365 poetry challenge.

He likes dogs and cats.

 

 

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Ed: Kate Bartolotta
Assistant Ed: Wendy Keslick