the igneous palms of California

By Karie McNeley

lie listening for hours to the tongues of political dogs
lapping our fortunes cheap like crystal balls
in a silver spade locket around our necks
like a tight noose choking away our breaths
heavy and bold once, but now stuttering
and twitching like a bird near death
in the middle of an open road, a wingless plane
crash landing into an abyss of forest
green eyes blinded as we burst and shatter
into vexed confetti fragments, smoking
like a slow chimney towards the clouds
whisked and wispy and then chased away
from the sky by our powerful orange
mushroom boom, deafness followed by
press-board particles and grey cement
from our blood-soaked houses, dripping
wet and sloppy; beach sand to drip castle,
from the igneous palms of the California coast
to Atlantic waves clacking and chiming
like rhythm to the sub-Mediterranean wind
as we await our indefinite tsunami quake fate
listening for hours to the tongues of mangy dogs
lapping our fortunes cheap like crystal balls
in a patriotic locket around our necks,
red, white, and blue choking away our breaths.