chevy minotaurs wander the desert
childhood dreams wither with age
where they play
where adults sit in the somnolent shade
and families gather in resentment round coolers filled with beer.
twisting paths of liquid stone bake in the untended sun
cement poles and alien trees
reach for siblings across the road,
and shelter the lost from feeling.
endless cinderblocks, stacked and mortared walls
wide second-story windows gouged from pastel boxes
peer out at traffic and
a thousand permutated castles
defended by suburban moats
under chain and lock
peer out over automated progression
through a maze with no egress but collision
and no ingress but a kind of death.
calling a rose a gun makes it something
women are always surprised when I say their names
i'm not sure if it's the rarity
or the acknowledgment
that they exist
i’ve screwed a lot of ‘hey you’s
on twin beds
on the floor of a laundromat.
smiles and cries
but always just
knowing a name has never given me power
you can’t control something that way
but 'hey you' is a slave to my desires
and 'hey you'can't hurt me the way ... can.
bio: Leeroy Berlin was swept out to sea in an unseasonal typhoon. Somehow he washed ashore back in LaLaland, and is waiting for the day he can afford airfare back to paradise. Read more of his poetry at leeroyberlin.com