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Sometimes we can't release dangers
closest to skin.
So we cling to carbon,
poison begging sweetly
to destroy.
Passive breaths keep most small,
cramped in their exoskeletons.
But I want to grow horror-movie large
and suck the world dry.
With my last breath
flap new wings
and blow it all away.
Recently I've noticed getting along
is the great aspiration
of assholes and angels
alike.
So I wasn't surprised to see Conflict on the street yesterday,
a paper bag
and five-week shadow.
He told me to go to hell.
I slipped him a dollar,
smiled,
and kept walking.
The universe has no red lights.
Cosmic crashes are blamed on a creator
who forgot to hang street signs from the stars.
Sixty-five million years ago the fiery ring of collision
appeared like a yield in the sky.
Dinosaurs, great-grandfathers of the earth,
pulled over and hairy organisms sped past
birthing upright descendents,
who would know only the green light of glory.
Who would ignore the earthy orange of the setting sun
and drive blindly
into the horizon.
Joshua Conklin is an assistant editor at both JMWW and Slurve, two online literary magazines. A teacher by trade, he is currently a stay-at-home dad who tries to write interesting poetry between all the crap that literally fills his day.