The Mosquito Monocracy

First published in
Boston Review

1.

Roll them bones
at benthic measure.
The bankers of sleep
bicker in the break
room. I find telephones
humming in their buoyant
cases everywhere along
the river, all unanswered;
all when answered yield
the voice that calls
you to waking.

2.

Josephine, I’ve just junked
a jazz band, some squall
grullo by the cobweb’s logic.
All skulls and bouillabaisse
but we’ll see come Zulu
time if it’s of goodwill
or gall the Zoroaster sings.
All this in the hallway where
July stalls jetlagged,
in the hallway where
the lemonade light lingers.

3.

Every day was Halloween
in the Middle Ages:
the cravats of betrayed
consiglieri crispened under
Carpathian sun. So long,
Main Street. So sorry.
I’ve rung you jealous
to say slender things
from this fickle well.
I think it best we
go to bed now.

4.

Upon alkaline lakes we
skate on alkaline skates.
In ermine the eel eats
the eggs of each oak tree.
I eye the exit out into
the taxi-infested night.

5.

My time in Malaria,
among the mystic
zombies who dragged
themselves like trash
through the tropics
chanting no time 
like this time like 
this time to waste,
was accurately reported
as an adventure in
rudimentary calisthenics.
They haunt me like
hemoglobin. From behind
bus terminals they ply
us in paper suits, watch
us like iceboxes.

6.

From the calcite
mountains of our mouths.

 

About Adam O. Davis

Adam O. Davis is a poet, photographer, test pilot, greengrocer, gardener, thief, liar, truth-teller, bank teller, door-to-door salesman, book binder, night deposit box, logarithm, lamplighter, lobsterman, horse breaker, cat burglar, curt cartographer, carbon copy, cubist octopus, bail bondsman, bad barnstormer, paperboy, teacher, automotive technician, tearful confessor, candyman, cropduster, getaway car driver, top-seeded amateur, surfer, soothsayer, railway brakeman, lightning strike recipient, sinister signpost, unexpected sweepstakes, sentimental jukebox, endangered species, naturally-occurring arch, axeman, ashcan, ashram janitor, freelance writer/editor, speechwriter, ghostwriter, ghostbuster, concierge, cape wearer, lost shoe, lost balloon, floating away from your childhood at an exponential rate. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in several journals, including Boston Review, Grist, The Laurel Review, POOL, Sixth Finch, The Southern Review, CutBank, andThe Paris Review.

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