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Precious Resource

by Paul Handley

   

Conversation is leavened by white lies,
beauty enhanced by flaw,
the purity of gin set off  by vermouth.

Earth, water and chlorophyll have merged.
Concentrated form bruises on contact.

A spray is an open hand slap to the heart. 
Looking god in the face is too much,

filters and confessionals provide a screen
Menthol is wrung from winter, out of
harvested leaves of mint and diluted to taste.
Gun injected chlorophyll into impulse bought gum.

Cigarettes are a sauna of flailing sprigs in the throat.
Pool filters provide a menthol soak,
if the cabana boy skims off the muck.

Hatchery dwellers spiked water adheres
to gills for all day flavor,
leaving food chain climbers licking lips. 

Farm raised salmon aid morning breath,
but sometimes miss a false positive for renal failure,
leaving a more invasive technique for later.

Passed the breathalyzer.
Grinned as the tube fogged with menthol outtake,
as I counted saved attorney fees in my head.

Déjà vu when sweet taste of recycled own air,
through intake air tube in short-term care ward.

Even modern gas chambers are enhanced,
by blissful taste layered into tanks where victims,
jump walk the walls, to kiss the incoming vent,

that is mistaken for a wholesome leak,
as brains lock up and organs clench.

PR reps and spin face built in good will by beat reporters,
that want to brush against their minty freshness.

Atheists of Europe have recanted sacrilegious blasphemy.
Nirvana and reincarnation are in their steepled digits,
enclosing an evident epidemic of stigmata.

His Goth sister said you’ll have a handsome corpse
His stench of death was stanched by the chlorophyll residue.
I didn’t know for days.

My Roommate had dreamed that St. peter
eyed him with suspicion,
leaned forward as though to kiss him,

but entered thru his mouth, then exited tough and slimy.
The cold moisture of raw liver.
Pete recoiled as if he hadn’t crawled around
his innards like a swift oyster,

then pulled the cartoon trap door lever.
Life is a short peppermint patty,
my roommate explained.

It feels like I didn’t fight.
I didn’t bite my lip
and taste my blood or rile up my acid in panic.

It feels as if I lost a game show.
Cue sound-wah, wah, wah.

No need to add jelly to pears and lamb. 
Elegant horse racing wear is up.
After dinner rooftop derby julep drinking,

while watching late rush hour of cabs and cars jockey. 
Third floor Nona’s white notes slide the loopy guide wire,
the way their puppet master who plays wind instruments

inlaid with a chlorophyll coating,
blows them like iridescent smoke rings. 
Cool jazz complement is ideal.

 

 

 

Paul Handley has poems included or forthcoming in publications such as Anemone Sidecar, Boston Literary Magazine, Halfway Down the Stairs, Honey Land Review, Journal of Truth and Consequence, Red Fez and others. Links to his work are at http://editred.com/mcdede.

 

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