Gulls Swept Low

 

When I wake
there you are

nearly beside me

the sky is greenish
filled with giant yellow windmills

which stalk
our agreed-upon heaven,

gulls swept low
by esoteric changes.

I try to respect
whatever sense of boundaries
you have

but it’s hilarious;

the cognitive dissonance
both of us must go through

to maintain
this stunted,
strangled affair,

where love
is always the first subject

to be omitted.

 

 

Robbie

 

The story about the little girl
with a hulking, silent robot for a nursemaid

who she desperately loves
but then later outgrows

is the saddest allegory ever written
about fatherhood.

 

 

 

Pulsing Violet

 

Pulsing violet

you got pregnant
with my words

and our children
were born

from another language,
unearthly

certainly misspelled
but oh

such stories
they became.

 

 

Door Skins

 

I press you against
external door skins

our senescent whore skins

back alley kisses
in scrabbling succession.

The scent of brick buildings
lies hard upon us

ignited by the wine
of dandelions and old fruit

holding traces
of insensible epiphany

never to forget
your generosity
when I was fleetingly he.

I believe in love

and all other
bastard excitements;

the undeserved nights
given rarely

which we cannot bear to keep
or bury.

 

Against the Sudden Bright

 

A newfound anti-algorithm will either bring us together
or prevent us from ever meeting.

We are muted orange and neither of us
is to be believed; burdened by deniers that our mutual vision
somehow extends across solder shades and antimony countryside.

My mouth is hypergothic, licking wildly at the candies
of your lavish, distant gift. We unmake worlds
into unique forms so that we can be both relevant and meaningless.

Your gentle ellipse succumbs to almost hands,
quelled by the disrespect of shroudsmiths and light invasive.
You stand in fields of hematite and ethereal sacrosanct,
plying everlasting fabrications, and still, you are merciful.

Mastodons graze somewhere in exquisite assembly,
swallowing pink-hued clouds and subterranean fungi.
If I never find you there, it wasn’t for lack of trying.

I partially exist in a diesel-scented world of unscrupulous possibilities,
all oyster-gray and mourning lace, where your voice whispers
so softly as to be almost unheard. Even when the last vibration

ceases to be, we will have another wholly unrelated future
in which to make the same mistakes repeatedly.

 

 

 

 

Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL with his wife, Vickie, and daughter, Sage. He is a three-time Pushcart, Best of the Net and Best of the Web nominee whose work has appeared in more than a thousand publications.