Bouncing Void

Just before our inner globe
got tipped
into this chilly shadow

and life’s tender green moments
curled into crunchy, brittle shapes,
skidding like dismembered paws
on the pavement of mind—

Void was winking
at a terrible black-tongued deity
rising from a sea of newsprint.

Just before
a cosmetic shade of purpose
got smeared
on the sexy, glowing skin of
what never happened

and the long string of addresses
that take turns choosing us,
got eclipsed
by a moonless idea called God—

Void was smuggling
on whispery breath
fresh medicine
to a tiny, undetected tumor.
.
Just before
the seamless field of sentience
got chopped up,
dumped cold into a “to go” box,
(our fidgety, forsaken face)

and romance became
something more giddy
than kicking through
the crunchy, brittle shapes
piling around
each truth-torn moment—

Void was giddy—
bouncing
like Neil Armstrong
in a suit of flesh.