in parentheses

A Whole Economy Of Objects

We are climbing
a ladder toward
gear-shaped caverns,
a flash-frozen wind’s trembling
above a barren land-fill. Can you imagine
how they’ll moan
about us? Let my people go
on dissolving
in the gem tumblr
of time, set to a beat made from 808’s
and heartbreak.

A millennium hath passed
and its purpose is within
grasp, an ensorceled crystal
mountain buried under the sea.
Spike covered box turtle
patterned leggings preserved
by petroglyphs, apple pies
when the moon hits your eye.
Scratch and sniff stickers
smellin’ like dill pickles
put an end to your world
like the Mayans.

Tree colored mushrooms
undone by elephant prowess
made me ruby red and dead.
This is no world for a memory
to live in. Praying mantis sized
keytars quietly killing it
using the wrong verb tense.
But we, we are not
archivable.
We will not go
willingly
into the cloud.

Pagan Characteristics

They live only near
a few rivers
in the desert.
An uninterrupted chain
of scribes footnote
the mundane paths
you took as a child.
It grieves me to see
a burning book
unbound by myth.
Awash in the finest
ink this side of the Mississippi.
She later saw with much vigor
a vision of an eagle perched
eating an ouroborous
on a cactus.
Bones that become the domain
of a child’s dreams
rebel against the current
regime, a series of subpoenas
against elevators, full of blood
that call to mind
our nation’s lackadaisical space
program.

Archaeopteryx’s dream

Time is an ocean
we must be allowed to sail
if we wanted to.

Italo Calvino’s nervous breakdown

They who built the first cities
are no longer known
to us.
All other people
who live are descendants
of Cain.
Circumcise me
with Tybalt’s sword.
The faithful stars
drowned in darkness
above our lonely love
making. A vine,
fruitful only with regard
to smarmy jewels and ass-kissing
pearls that entrance simpletons.
Eating of the dead, requirements:
You must be the son of a butcher.
You must believe there are but five ages.
You must eat the young vegetables before the old.
I built a pool
by the side of a road, clutching
pine boughs to my chest
druid-like in the dying
light. Don’t tell them my secret
names, only write them in sand
or carve them into lead
books that will be thrown into pits
filled with autumn leaves
and the color of the lake.

Nolan Allan is a writer from North Carolina. He’s been published in Thought Catalog, XO Affectionate, LQQK Magazine, and forthcoming in others. He has many words to say and sometimes says them here https://twitter.com/nolanallan