the bitter fluid of the drunk

bile from main street Littletown
gaping holes in the street
hiding behind the supermarket carts
jutted into the empty office parks
behind security guards fondling their guts

inside the parking structure
where the air lets in the heat
where the trees are watching us die

under the piano man stands
the boy
before the great orbs of civilization
glittering across the sky
atop the copperhouse stones
cleaving to his tribe

family runs the grit into the math
trying to add up stones
looking for the piece to fit above the heart
to scar the brace
keeping pace with our rage

the boy is running over the copperhouse stones
looking for a way out
from the infinite horizon

the piano is putting on some trills
for his finale
under the burning sun
under the husk of the mask of the dark
under the husk of the wrath of the evil ones
fluttering atop the stones

no man may utter the times
because we cannot understand its face
shuttered under horrible noise
a forgotten haunted house

no man may deliver the message
of its death
for it has been revived
we attend our own wake

Robin Wyatt Dunn was born in Wyoming in 1979. The son of a geologist father and a potter mother, he has lived in six states, the U.K., and Canada. New Pop Lit called him “one of the most talented writers in America.” He has been nominated for several awards, including the Rhysling, Elgin, Pushcart and Best of the Net. He was once a finalist for Poet Laureate of Los Angeles. Currently he lives in Tucson, Arizona. Read other articles by Robin, or visit Robin's website.