Lunchtime Express
although we are not on our way
to the 1873 World’s Fair in Vienna
& it’s unfair our compartment
plays cat & mouse with the river for so long
we are still brigands & villains
on the lunchtime express
following in the footsteps a shade slower, banking
through a turnstile of trees.
The woman beside me sighs like a Benedictine
Abbey slipping off a rocky outcrop &
although we are not on our way
to the 1873 World’s Fair in Vienna
connectomes
cable & cross-over, pull apart
shoofly. tracking rights is a bone
of contention
& the conductor has eyes like a squatter’s doorway.
The birds & blondes are red flag warnings—
nothing can be verified. But if we listen closely
although we are not on our way
to the 1873 World’s Fair in Vienna
spring eels in cisterns piped from
vaulted ceilings hidden underground
& the train is a tarot deck unshuffling
laid down, describing our adventures
as brigands & villains
Keyhole Cover No. 1
she was an obscure girl living
behind a keyhole cover, the die-
cut hole a stepback
into an erotic thriller
in which she finds herself
dress rehearsing for star
& director, a foil embossed illustration
of viva magenta eyeshadow &
Rothko ruddy blusher, the oversized
sunglasses an afterthought on those Saturday
afternoons at The Met. Her instinct
basic; her body; doubled
“I don’t make any rules. I go with the flow.”
Heels slingback the museum floor, clickety-
clack past the reclining nude, the Venetian
blinds, the baroque kink of an elevator
spreading its legs
& closing behind you.
— Damon Hubbs: Constant gardener, casual birder. Poems featured or forthcoming in Book of Matches, Horror Sleaze Trash, Fevers of the Mind, Cajun Mutt Press & Yellow Mama.