Morning swim and foggy eyes unsure keys and best thoughts are like swords. Dragonfly mating Winnebago trips and three day old instant coffee. There’s half a continent in between it all, and dotted lines. Dreamt of sea turtles and oil spills, we are in a bit of a pickle she says at the convenience store counter. I am still waiting on my jar, like that blue soda bottle tornado, perhaps a bookshelf memory for the prehistoric creatures in the packets and cannibalism. Windy morning looks like showers that might keep all the ships at bay, I am just trying not to be afraid of everyone. I saw a paisley sunset in the book you will write tommorrow. There’s a wooden plank engine roar tinny enough to blind. Wore the right costume, forgot my shoes and my socks never match. Saw the grave grey city walls that line your bunker apartment bus stop, need to find a ripe tomato and thirty-five cents to make a fellow tall enough. If I could dress them all in a gown of flames, I would forget on purpose. Ocean wave flag wings and blinking, lights dim twinkle complex, as a square in the museum throats rust pincer soup.
Benjamin Haas was born in Missouri, and has since moved to Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He has been published in The New Delta Review and Ditch.