Lucas Boelter

Rest Room

I keep myself awake; the tunnel of solitude is a jawless
wreath, glistening and bitter like the dust of Japanese
moths. It was in the Wrigley Field bathroom, I was a crawfish
heading towards the light – sizzle, sizzle. Lights burned, keys

stuck to my thigh, I thought my neck would be cut by the phone booth
line or the stall door gazing down like a guillotine. It could be glorious
to leave in a sparkling men’s room, eaten by the badged gray wolf,
taking your body sack down in black, and a smooth table for nefarious

examination. The reflective metal lining the mirrors, the faucets spewing a library
of would-be drownings, the overrun bushes of a Catholic Church in the tattooed
section of a cerebrum’s schizotypal ruminations. As I lay in your apothecary,
Doc, do not forget to let a ruined old boy see his face in your scalpel, lewd

fork. I imagined churning my finger in the ceiling light, my blown up alibi;
How can any of us help but crush ourselves in search of Heaven’s nuclei?
​

---

Cosmic Cubes

                                          
I want to live my hours in
a pod, the pallor of which will cause intestines
to restrain themselves in visceral straitjackets,
or perhaps uncork – just concave walls for me
and the clot of day’s daily surgery into darkness.
I find a narrative in a wall-corner, see,
and soon the constellations warp my pod window, the quilt
is spread for metaphysics’ and mathematics’ twirling fingers
to collide with a bang big
of dislocation and a world to calm me forever.
Serene is the life of a wall-worshipping spaceman
Who’ll coil the celestial mechanics of cosmic cubes he does create--
the wormhole digesting the oily eighth grade,
the radioactive high school, the beating hammer.

---

Burrow

You were wearing black jeans and a black jacket,
The grazing lawbreakers on the elevator gawked.
We spent the night digging into your paper packet

Your blanket-gray day was a church bell of clerical racket,
A dusk of decaying Rubik’s cubes, an eyeline glumly chalked.
You were wearing black jeans and a black jacket.

You said you envisioned the deep of a palm, the hole of a rabbit;
Our eyes down at each other’s abdomens, softly our mouths hawked.
We spent the night digging into your paper packet.

You need this burrow, where at times the windows slowly turn to agate;
We’ll lie in your damp closets, admiring the softness of cracks newly caulked.
You were wearing black jeans and a black jacket.

Perhaps in the skintight wombs where the grown gray ticks inhabit,
Our matches will snowflake, and our stalked eyes will become un-stalked.
You were wearing black jeans and a black jacket,
We spent the night digging into your paper packet.


 

--
Lucas Boelter