Hell for Thoughts

Never mind time past,
time present and time future
are become the New Now
in the electric beargarden
that lies beyond the Enter key.
Our tumult expressed in
ectoplasmic glee; in
ejaculatory, anarchic release.
We’ll never get caught.
Our thought-deeds, once away,
are clapped in a personal supermax—
easily remembered on visitor’s day
but, even then, at a safe remove.
Shame notwithstanding, just hit
“Enter” and never you mind.

Ten Thousand Islands

There are no right angles.
The GPS thinks you’re on dry land.
The waters here are pea-green brown.
The mangrove roots are panther claws,
unsheathed in the light of a falling sun.
Shallow channels beg
for a grounding,
and, sure enough,
the bottom grabs your prop
same as Charles Bronson grabbed
that thug’s testicles in
The Evil That Men Do,
rendering you immobile,
frozen in 97˚ heat and
97% humidity.

Your mind spins but not the prop.
You need to call the Coast Guard,
but it’s a cell phone dead zone.
You could perish here,
clouds of mosquitoes winging
you to your rest.

On our vacation adventure
we smiled at Nature
with kindly indulgence;
accordingly, she will devour us.

Hot Hot Hot

we live where it’s hot
where the sun is close
a community
of circumstance
whose existence
is predicated
on trickle-down

more than just sociable
we mingle in the streets
to avoid suffocation

thin fabrics
cling to damp flesh
revealing pudendal clefts
betraying surprise erections
disclosing living-large
dope rolls in front pockets
or small arms
beneath shirttails

we laugh wide open
while sunglasses veil
our measured intentions