Towns South of Texas
Winter 2006
Jak Cardini
Tonight,
there are towns all over
south Texas
that have felt no sea
where all water has left them helpless
sprawled out in the bed of a truck like Autumn
and here the trees have begun
to talk amongst themselves
an orange pine
for these poignant leaves
falling into the street
so dry
Dangerous birds across the sky
ablaze for hearts who’ll never taste the clouds
but have flown tied to kites
to peek a wind
of your breeze
from a swell
when Galveston was awash with chords
and no Fall
just the lifts of two lost moons pulling a dance ashore
In some cities there are no skies
just loud nothings attached to the tops of buildings
where you have been jazzed
a whish of two step to this space opera
moon dancing into the mystic
Left a swirl inside
such Eleventh Dimensional catch phrases
from the Twenty-Fourth Century,
“Empty”
has failed to conduct your
pure friction of
“is no more”
Barely yawning more but
the calm echoes of
distant dream villages
asleep beyond the breadth of space
And so,
huge pieces of imagination have fallen into the deep
clashing with a sky
already confused with UFOs
who hug the whole cold expanse of night
We swam the reflections of marvelous Mer-Words
as they attached themselves to
fuller paragraphs
non-being the dead comma doo dads
of functional pause
in more spacious prose
about drunk periods
or barnacles
as she reads to the crowed curls
battling above her
this cosmic quotation
found drowning in the waves:
“I only love you on Krypton”
Jak Cardini is the author of A: Space Opera and lives in a suburb of Houston known as "The Woodlands." He has been published in S.S.O. Press and Spolied Ink and Whimperbang. He is a photo tech at Wallgreens and has always wanted to be an astronaut. Or a big game hunter. Something. He thanks you for liking his poems.
Jak Cardini
Tonight,
there are towns all over
south Texas
that have felt no sea
where all water has left them helpless
sprawled out in the bed of a truck like Autumn
and here the trees have begun
to talk amongst themselves
an orange pine
for these poignant leaves
falling into the street
so dry
Dangerous birds across the sky
ablaze for hearts who’ll never taste the clouds
but have flown tied to kites
to peek a wind
of your breeze
from a swell
when Galveston was awash with chords
and no Fall
just the lifts of two lost moons pulling a dance ashore
In some cities there are no skies
just loud nothings attached to the tops of buildings
where you have been jazzed
a whish of two step to this space opera
moon dancing into the mystic
Left a swirl inside
such Eleventh Dimensional catch phrases
from the Twenty-Fourth Century,
“Empty”
has failed to conduct your
pure friction of
“is no more”
Barely yawning more but
the calm echoes of
distant dream villages
asleep beyond the breadth of space
And so,
huge pieces of imagination have fallen into the deep
clashing with a sky
already confused with UFOs
who hug the whole cold expanse of night
We swam the reflections of marvelous Mer-Words
as they attached themselves to
fuller paragraphs
non-being the dead comma doo dads
of functional pause
in more spacious prose
about drunk periods
or barnacles
as she reads to the crowed curls
battling above her
this cosmic quotation
found drowning in the waves:
“I only love you on Krypton”
Jak Cardini is the author of A: Space Opera and lives in a suburb of Houston known as "The Woodlands." He has been published in S.S.O. Press and Spolied Ink and Whimperbang. He is a photo tech at Wallgreens and has always wanted to be an astronaut. Or a big game hunter. Something. He thanks you for liking his poems.