words, those marks
on paper, the dots
on screen,

the flutterering
in our throats
and ears,

are fit only
for dissecting
themselves.

every language
is a peculiar failure
we suffer

and in their poor fit
we try to find
the inadvertent music.

the modern soul
is a plastic bag
that believes
it is a helium balloon.

if you spot one
against the sky,
it was the wind
that carried it
to such a great height.

Susie slumbered well into the morning,
her untethered thoughts struggling against
an ebbing tide of dark narcotic dreams

that incorporated shouting, breaking
glass, the thud of rocks, a car rolled, torched.

like a girl hidden in a cardboard cake
she sprung awake, eyes wide but still seeing
the dark sea in the suitcases, in the beds.

the daylight bouncing drew her fully out,
into the suite and yesterday’s stale clothes,
the sliding door open, a long curtain
waved, flashing the balcony and the sky,
the soundtrack to her last dream leaking in.

she stretched and stumbled to the balcony,
the grey points of disturbed pigeons drifted
between anonymous mirrored towers.

from the depths of the streets rose the shouting.
she pushed aside a table and looked down
on the dark stripes of the dividing streets,

twenty floors below a small riot played.
two black minivans were turned on their backs,
helpless, like beetles, burning in the sun.

signs were being waved. where were the police?
the riot squad? anyone to return
the imminent violence ready to flare.

like painted coconuts, heads poked over
the lower balconies. so many blondes

watching the riot and wondering where
the police hid while their hotel was sieged.
if the rioters chose to storm the doors
all of the coconuts would be sorry.

she took the ashtray from off the table
and turned it over, and over again.

the sunlight twisted through the handcut glass,
and gathered into bright and shifting curls
brighter than the sun on the table top.

she flung it hard. it flashed and fell away.

she chose not to watch it reach its target:
anyone down there. the noise continued.

looking over the edge, the crowd swallowed
the heavy ashtray without a murmur.

next - a potted palm, a green fan standing
in a white glazed pot, as tall as she was.
dropping a pot plant - that brought a wry smile.
she wrestled it up over two stages

first on the chair, then the balcony rail.
like a bombardier she eyed her target,
waiting for it, the singular moment
of alignment, perhaps an upturned face.

-You can’t do that.

Susie slumbered
well into the morning,
untethered thoughts swimming
against an ebbing tide
of narcotic dreams

incorporating shouting,
breaking glass,
the thud of rocks,
a car being rolled
and set alight.

like a dancer
from a cardboard cake
she sprung awake,
eyes wide but still seeing
the dark sea in the suitcases
and the beds.

the daylight bouncing
drew her fully out,
back into the suite
and last night’s clothes.

a long curtain waved,
flashing the balcony
and the sky,
the sliding door open,
the soundtrack
to her last dream
leaking in.

she stretched
and stumbled
to the balcony.

the grey points
of disturbed pigeons
drifting between
a thousand silent towers

from the depths
of the streets
rose the shouting
that woke her.

she pushed aside a table
and peered over the narrow rail.

around the feet
of the towers,
twenty stories down,
a small riot.

two black minivans
were on their roofs,
like beetles, burning,
in the sun.

signs were being waved.
where were the police?
the riot squad?
anyone to return the violence.

like painted coconuts
heads poked out
over the lower balconies.
so many blondes

watching the riot,
wondering where
the police were hidden.

if the rioters stormed
the glass doors
of the hotel
they would all be sorry.

she took the ashtray
that sat on the table
and turned it over and over.

the sunlight twisted
through the thick glass,
and gathered into bright
shifting curls that glowed
on the table top.

they couldn’t be allowed
to get away this.
she flung it out into the air
and it flashed and fell.

she did not want to watch
it reach its target - anyone
below in the street.

the noise continued.
looking over the edge,
the crowd had swallowed
the ashtray
without a pause.

there was a potted palm,
a green fan standing
in a white glazed pot,

dropping a pot plant -
that brought a wry smile.
she wrestled it in stages
(onto chair, onto table)
onto the balcony rail
and like a bombardier
considered her target below,
waiting for the singular moment
of alignment to release it.

-You can’t do that.

Susie slumbered
well into the morning,
untethered thoughts swimming
against an ebbing tide
of narcotic dreams

incorporating shouting,
breaking glass,
the thud of rocks,
a car being rolled
and set alight,
cheering, chanting.

like a dancer from a cake
she sprung awake, eyes wide
but still seeing the dark sea
in the suitcases and the beds.

the daylight bouncing
drew her fully out,
back into the room
and last night’s clothes.

a long curtain waved,
flashing the balcony
and the sky.
the sliding door was open,
the soundtrack
to her last dream
leaking in.

she stretched
and stumbled out
onto the balcony
in front of a thousand
silent towers
from below came shouting.
she pushed aside a table
to peer over the narrow rail.

in the street,
twenty stories down,
a small riot.

two black minivans
were on their roofs,
like beetles, burning
in the sun.

signs were being waved.
where were the police?
the riot squad?
anyone to return the violence.

over balconies below
heads poked out
like painted coconuts.
so many blonde.

everyone watching the riot.
probably all wondering
where the police were.

if the rioters
stormed the hotel
they would all be sorry.

she took the ashtray
that sat on the table.
she turned it over and over.
the sunlight distorted
through the thick glass
into bright shifting curls
shining on the table top.

they couldn’t be allowed
to get away this.
she flung it out into the air
and it flashed and fell.

she did not want to watch
it reach its target - anyone
below in the street.

the noise continued.
looking over the edge
it appeared the ashtray
had been swallowed
by the crowd.

there was a potted palm
like a giant green fan
standing in a white glazed pot
as high as her waist.

dropping a pot plant.
that brought a wry smile.
she wrestled it in stages
onto the balcony rail
and like a bombardier
considered her target below,
waiting for the singular moment
to release it.

-You can’t do that.