It's got to do with America, 
my love of music, my grotesque loneliness... -- Henry Miller


1
Are not all summer nights

born late in America, fading 

only when morning glories,

fog draped at dawn, breech

fairgrounds entire 

continents long? 


*


Pine perimeters encircle

veiled hermetic tents.

Suspended rides now frighten.

Momentarily the carnies are

relieved of their ugliness.

Cotton candy gins spin dry

confections to cold crystal.

Sugared metals stick/stop,

their precocious tongues

tuned too early for erasure.


2
I, Twitter, stutteringly remember

in cyber chases late night sittings

at screen blue scrabbling after old

grievances such are lovers,

cheaters, jilts, and those rare

'got-lucky' graces, unexpected

shudders and shoulders when 

I broke open, finally laid, laid

waste for future flatterers

and failures of heart.


*


Sniffing my fingers for remnant tents, 

I recall, sickened, the candy at every fair, 

handfuls gorged, glutted, belly sore and

wanting more, drowned in the push-shove

of fevered bodies intent on the fast rides

where one loses stomach for the ordinary.

*

Dizzy, I grab my ankles, confess instead, 

I've puked my guts from excess, spun sugar

and cartwheels, mechanical distractions

ghosting up Stillborn nights holding their

breath well past bedtime, the big tent

forever packed.

*
Sitting on a window ledge, counting passing

railroad cars, a boy thief stealing circus hours.