Poetry: 2 Poems by Colin Dodds

Poetry: 2 Poems by Colin Dodds

The Laguna Beach Behind Laguna Beach

What hells must smolder
in the denizens of paradise
The citrus sun flickers and vicious angels bicker
while they talk about fruit

At dusk, the beach horizon rises
until language panics and clings
to a construction-orange moon

Flashing living rooms of the headlands
corral the darkness, blink in a sequence
nobody cares to decipher 

The front desk clerk says make a lot of money today
The lobby fills with doctors and sales reps
giddy with a sense of look, I’m really doing it
Nature herself slides in on eucalyptus breezes
singing softly of what’s highly likely if you’d just
sit still a while longer—terrible at first, but before long
there’s nothing else you can think of

None of Laguna Beach cries out
for interpretation or redemption
The moon hushes as it drops past midnight
you don’t have to go to sleep, but you can’t stay here
Televisions speckle the hillside with a single dream
of a world great and grand and true and terrible
full of effortless beauty and love, and real
because it said so

Up the 405 past gas refineries and luxury shops
Flowers and guardrails fail to matter
Flying could be falling
It’s a question of who you ask
a question of if you ask

Deep in a fresh desert
a mortal dearth
of undivided attention
I reach out
What I reach for, the world becomes
Where I reach from and past
afflicts it

The Beltway of Dawn

Pushing darkness through a tube
amid rumors of friction at the terrible axle
eluding traffic, eluding the sociability of matter—
reef of lights, crystal ferry in dry furrows
church on fire with a lawn newly mown
The land becomes a flowing gown 

Shed a prayer by the region’s Museum
of Science and God, malls, office parks, airports—
a future worth building, but not cleaning
Musket ball scoring on fresh sheetrock
The whole pandemic-emptied seaboard
Remnants of discontinued astrological systems
returned home as rest stops and travel plazas
Haunted steel bridges over Jersey swamps
Mystical misinformation on the FM
Maybe that generation was bound
to smash itself on the rocks anyway

I never know how far to let this stuff in

The airwaves bubble near the great city
No station holds from one overpass to the next
The radio asks why there are so many ghosts
and why so many are missing
The radio host recites numbers that turn to water
The bridge named for a dead State Trooper
crosses a swift-moving river
The host says number is the beast
and recites the names the cities were not given

There is no speaker strong enough
to gather in such confusion
The world must end again

But get a little farther out on the spoke
And the night crashes harmlessly on the glass hull
The traffic goes fast and straight, the babies sleep
The lights are out, the heat is on

Poetry: 1 Poem by Christian Patterson

Poetry: 1 Poem by Christian Patterson

Meg's Favorite Horror Moments of 2017

Meg's Favorite Horror Moments of 2017