O to be in the moon chamber,
to drink the serviceberry goo,
and the tiny pies on an equal—
sized plate of tininess. To be
surrounded with props. Black
mirrors into other faces. Vials/
powders/wind chimes that only
chime at the end of the world.
A bottle of cologne purchased
at the apocalypse dollar store.
To be inside a djinni bottle
or to retreat inside the turtle
shell, to go inside a magical
dimension inside your body
when the bomb has dropped,
when some divinity comes raging.
It is a fantasy of all people to stop
time and hide until the smoke
has cleared...but, look: gases
and vapors of smoldering corpses—
look how the carbon particles
are casting rainbows. Incandescent
organic matter pearling through air.
Who knew such violence could be
aesthetically plush? Pleasing. How
kawaii the devastation of the self is
and that of the soft, marbled earth.
Am I supposed to levitate myself off good deeds
&dismount this pale horse I am the sickly rider
who wants nothing more than to wear an exomis
&bodyslam through windows inside a shopping mall
&drink carrot juice while I drag my weeping body
over the white and black tiles &sit at the edge of a fountain
phlebotomizing into the chlorine-flow sad pennies my metal
touching always touching triangular glass me the chandelier
gushing&oozing like a butter churn full of rubies I
hemorrhage& banshee-burst through toy-
stores Steeplechasing discount racks&
sale shoes& Halloween handprints on the giveaway
Lexus yes—the prize! veins
hanging out my legs getting caught in escalators
&people stop gape declare
"Call 911" but this is my ponyfun so I tromp&touch all the jewelry cases&
disappear into the shadows
of the parking garage before anyone can catch me&
try to make sense of my bloodgallop
JD Scott is a poet currently living in Tuscaloosa, AL. His publications include Night Errands (Winner of the Peter Meinke Prize for Poetry—YellowJacket Press, 2012) and FUNERALS & THRONES (Birds of Lace, 2013).