Despertar 3
By JL Martindale

Every scotch glass rim I kiss
tastes of bitter, biting
chalk-dust crushed Vicodin.
Solid memory blurs night;
strobe-shuttered fragments
fast-forward. Pause. Rewind.
Pause: the her, who is me,
filtered sepia, cyan,
unfocused noise
in monochrome transitions
age-fade orange deep
through burn-edged
waking, wearing his
wife-beater. Him,
beside me, naked
torso against white
tangled bed sheets.


  1. Imagery with sounds. I love the pacing of the fast-forward. Pause. Rewind. Pause. You can hear that. Well exectued. I agree with Steve I. haunting sensations indeed.

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