To the Artist's Page                 To our home page

To Luke Buckham's previous piece     To Luke Buckham's next piece

it's raining bathtubs

this night's blurred flannel vocabulary
birch tree frayed spears of warm ice
limp fists of treebark static pawing the wet firepits
holding a hand paler than mine
spiderwebbed powerlines
other people's seamless clothes like foreign currency
begging for a new touch on angelic clotheslines
a bullet softly nicks my earlobe & unwraps itself over an unlit mile
metal jacket weaving itself into stilled birdfeathers when it falls
a half-eaten sirloin covered with loud moths drifts past my feet
the earth spun like a crashed bicycle tire
raising green smoke from the soles of my shoes 
i chose a claw hammer from a moonbeam
and an engine of bone fan blades for my concrete shadow