By Carla Diaz

Volume XXXV, Issue 3, April 19, 2013


An upward cadence and flickering eye—
down, up, bat, sigh, down.

The familiar droll behind their creamy faces
sounds just like the radio

and confidence, like a junkyard fly,
swirls and swirls, landing on stink.

Saliva hangs from bulldog’s jowls,
landing on pretty heaps of empty things.

I watch the scene nearby,
an old vestige of this crooked landscape,

And doubt my pedestal,
which leans ever to the left,

waiting to topple
from the weight of a fly.