Bacchus In The Neighborhood

(A thin veil
between us and the Gods
is lifted by the paws of dogs.)

The heat heat heat
made in the pot-stills of moons on the
lakes of nothing else to do
but think of trashing
the thinking, leaves you
in the summer the summer the heat
bottomed out.

When they play
the ones with the heavy heavy beats
and the still cloudless nights,
you’ll see your own
mom and dad
drinking beers on the porch
listening to Springsteen.

While you
vanish in the bushes
wild at 9 o’ clock, the sky
telling you just how to live,
or stopping the zoo from
running to your arms again
for comfort.

Tonight
is the party the llamas have waited
all year to spit at.
There is no language for weather.
They know it in
summer,
there is not a way to tell about the afternoon,
the tan lines of thighs,
the plastic of air
the hopes of leaves
the wilt of your face in the soaking
sprinkler pool sidewalk glamour show
lemonade stand drama,
the garden planned to meticulously
spill over while on vacation
to other parts of summer,
(cheating on your own fun).

Your face a Bacchus riot,
slamming the dreams down
on the table like coins,
all the while
panting,
all the while
shimmering,
screaming that
there is no way to talk about
reality.
There is no
speaking of the weather,
the space of time
stretching like a runners leg.

So there is only panting
after each sip,
a tongue lolling out of
each mouth,
trying to howl the gossip
under starry trees
as busted fire hydrants
shamelessly display their relief
in the streets.
A black-out, black-top
world, harbors an
always remembered
time.