Cylinders

Simeon Berry

Billy’s carpeted van

has the portholes blacked out

And reeks of oils and velour

We listen to an

electric guitar

dripping platinum

body fluids

While the radio DJ

chokes on his own tongue

Gutturally muttering

about how Charlotte

smelled like a pony anyways

and will get hers

Billy crushes out

a crooked clove

And grins his lop-eared grin

Asking what I’d like to know

I have no idea

I look out at the salt flats

where the irradiated

cowboy actors rode their coughs

into an afterlife of white sheets

Billy says the dust

from the tank shells

left his squad twisted

like something from

a comic book

And all I can say is

You read comics

Billy snorts

Sure It was either junk

or comics back then

But each was better

with the other

All the guys had

their own magical ways

of not giving a shit

But you My darlin’

You can’t fool me

I tuck my sweaty hair behind my ear

Oh no

Yeah

You’re all big eyes and slang

and crucified unicorns

But I can smell an open hymnal

on your sweet breath