I’m homeless in antique shops, no sunlight,
where the clocks tick down to haiuken.
The eyes of the oysters behind the manicured
cabinets lock my jaw shut. I can’t scream
for the Kraken’s arrival, or write a PHD
about Godzilla. (Even legendary sea monsters
sell their souls to alcohol companies).
Solstice has us running from the moon –
both moons, one Q times smaller than
the other. How many do you see at night?
It hurts to shed owl feathers under lost words,
and build lego into stairways. Sue moths, Sue moms,
Sue mum. Sew krosses into loaves of bread.
I’m infinite in antique shops – here the tablets
don’t write pikatrapp on canvas.
– Aaron Kent
To a hoarder
love is just
a savoring soon
to be thought about
only for possession’s empty,
loss of self,
and I antique
its own solstice,
These piles of forever,
just say it, say some—
Weighty carriages of the moon!
– Jeff Alessandrelli