H,H, Holmes

[paperleaves]

fourteen minutes left .
the reel sputters and coffee grounds flake off of the ceiling
(papers lined in acrylic tsunami)
as the blinds inch open and closed.
como omerta, las personas no pueden hablar
de sus hermanos
and my hands are redgreen in the trafficlights, maize and
concentration camps
mazes and
concentrated juice we are
we are produce in God's grocery store
our hands trickle lemon juice and turpentine
the brides have all run dry
and champagne splintered moonlight caresses
the edge of our bedsheets
i would lay with you
i would lay with you forever
under the city sheets.
rest stops and toll payments installed
our trips seem much longer
and the white widow wanders but the
bowler caps remain
in candy stores and liquor cabinets
he will kill us all.

[qimissung]

I like! My favorite line is "We are produce in God's grocery store." I love that image.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I agree with gimissung re that line but I worry whether H.H. Holmes is well enough known (I had to look him up) for the poem as a whole - and especially that cold, helpless final line - to work. Once again you put us in the position of being helpless spectators of a horrific psychedelic procession.

[paperleaves]

[qimissung] Thank you so much! It's a continuation of another poem which I entitled "We are all flecks of eggshell, in God's breakfast.." As always, thanks for the feedback!
[PrinceMyshkin] Jer, I am SO HAPPY you looked up H.H. Holmes, I visited one of his many homes while I was in Chicago this week. haunting experience. I can still feel him watching me from the bricks.....:)