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.