Electron Pulses

on the floor here’s a stand
for the 21st century:
a suicide, a night out and
a shot of whiskey

with electron pulses through
the bitter sting
and the chipped glass
pounding the table

as a wave pounds the shores;
like the dead-weight
ringing a bell
atop a briefly lit tower

it resonates through years,
penetrates through veins
spilt on the floor
and over under the crack of the door

this is autumn: this is
where winter gorges
upon our living vittles
to nurse itself

to full flourishing, to complete
quenched possibilities
that movie stars spoke of
years ago: before 21

was 20. the stars are our
cancer: the lump
in our throat
the tumor.

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