The Great Displacement
the cooling towers are peeling down to earth
as the unused rails bend around them,
the trinity of the atom is far from supercritical
other smokestacks follow along in the dance,
their bricks give way to red dust,
at their feet, the carcasses of cars still smolder
the flying buttresses and nave of the highway
have pancaked across the field,
the powerlines bend over it in a new crucifixion
the old basilica of a shopping mall sinks down
into the catacombs of a swamp,
as the snakes slide out of the empty storefronts
they are heading to the deserted cul-de-sacs
where the wind slams the doors
and howls through the cracks of dusty windows
temple after temple, the old faith is fading,
the altars of gas station pumps
and the icons of drive-through menus are gone
the neon no longer gives a halo to downtown,
the superstores no longer save,
the motel is no longer safe to be my monastery
but at night, a tribe is gathering appliances,
old fridges, washers, and dryers,
building Stonehenge in a crumbling parking lot
Lol Bot Is Serious
Bundle me in with the humble? It’s still a hurdle,
trying to find a way of telling that puts the truth on furlough,
sorcerers and their interns try to spring out and about
towards some kind of gated absolute,
but me? I prefer my lines to rhyme with the gutter sublime
A deluge awaits its submission, until then,
it’s all about casting and directing, searching for lines
that can build a brand big enough to fit on a tombstone,
it may not be the fate of nations in my hands,
just a little bit of group instinct I carry individually at all times
Ben Nardolilli is currently an MFA candidate at Long Island University. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, SLAB, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, The Northampton Review, Door Is A Jar Literary Magazine, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. Follow his publishing journey at http://mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.
