It's the shot glass progress over yesterday's
News print. If it's a day old it ain't news then, is it?
There's the panic that's malleable, yet essential from
Point A to B and beyond; from Pompeii to the eleventh
Of September and to the next incarnation of Attila.
It was outside, semi-wasted, that I glimpsed goats in
Procession through the puddles of that afternoon's rain.
Immaculate controversy, the clenched fist comes down
On the chosen face;
Back at my apartment, the electricity's been turned off,
Only I don't know it...won't know it until after 10ish that night.
Inside my apartment panic...Attila, call it what you will, is at home.
And it's all too perfect, don't you know? It's the progress from
Yesterday to noon to the hour before midnight when, like Vesuvius,
I explode out over the goats; over the other hunched drunks and
Land in tomorrow's print, a few pages beyond the latest shelling in Syria.
Dennis Villelmi is a poet whose poetry has been featured by both Dagda Publishing, as well as Dead Snakes. His first short story, a science fiction piece, will appear in an anthology titled,
"All Hail The New Flesh" (Dagda Publishing) later this January. Dennis Villelmi lives in SW Virginia.