The Farthest Mosque
smoking pot and marlboro reds with
the college prof who lives on my street
we’re listening to yung thug’s new mixtape
drinking beer he has a wonderful grassy lawn
a fantastic treehouse for his kids and
a chicken coop he built himself I’m going up
some kind of internal elevator the squirrels
are rampant on this sunny day we’re talking
about the federal interest rate what is that line maybe
its biblical about all the works and days of hands
I’m sure I’m misremembering but I think
it seems important I’ve had too much beer
once again and I’m high and these cigarettes are
making me woozy I think the cigarettes make me
more fucked than anything else the evening
is coming very soon I’m rushing into something
I’m traveling very very fast into the night
Gucci Linens
flowered sheets crumpled around your feet
in the morning you feel fine today bright
windows all the little potted succulents
hardly need water at all empty cigarette
pack empty bottles whatever that sort of thing
the lunar space station crashing toward earth
live feed cams shutting off at inopportune moments
even those mad ideologies murderously circulating
the body the lungs the air outside people are stooped
looking at mobile phone devices perhaps there
is a new trend app release or news that something
elegant occurred something good for people maybe
but what do I know about any of it I saw
leaves unfolding in time lapse on television
fireworks from the elks lodge pool fried whitefish
dark beer and malt vinegar the faint scent
of reefer on the wind returned home muddy headed
laughing and drank more wine watched mike tyson’s
greatest knockouts and bo jackson career highlights
fell asleep to awake in flowered sheets laughing to myself
Prayer to a Tiny African God
lit screen mischief that kind of thing
tweeting some far out shit or leaving cynical
comments on someone’s FB post what a joke
the ice skating rink at whole foods in the winter
sometimes the ice gets a little too carved up
seems a bit slushy really but I love the warm
chocolate smell of that place though the misery
of people living on downtown streets in America
is overwhelming they ask for money and I walk by
but I am not a monster at least I hope not
the broken granite paving and boarded up shop
windows the hard luck homeless what deep and
unfathomable well of abuse left them stranded
this way the night air as evening sets in the violet
sunset crown over the city the high road pool
with its skyline views and watery margaritas
the earth is cruel because nature is cruel some mystery
left me in this world and overhead some entirely different universe
Wallace Barker lives in Austin, Texas. He has been published in Fluland, Reality Hands, Have U Seen My Whale, and Keep This Bag Away From Children. More of his work can be found at wallacebarker.com.
