I know what you’re thinking
It really is hard to figure,
how all these moving parts
stay well-coordinated enough,
to get me from the kitchen
to the dining room.
Especially since as they say,
deep down it’s mostly just space,
which is so easily misdirected,
jarred, blown about, whisked
into different shapes and sizes.
The suction of a quickly opened
bedroom door opens the bathroom door
alongside of it, which significantly
disturbs the cobweb in the corner,
at the other end of the apartment.
I know what you’re thinking.
He’s worried about the space
between his protons, and how suction
may affect his walking while he
has a spider camping in the living room.
As thing meets nothing
only where there is life,
a spark of primal force
meets night’s smoky essence,
kindling like a distant lighthouse
on the horizon toward
some stellar Capricorn event.
In thrusts of gilded splashes
or softened strokes through misty haze,
mythic messages in blinding smear,
each a wave of blinding heat,
each to crest, to break then blend,
each to swell and soar again.
Nocturnal wildfire flares
illumine this mass of nihilistic sea,
scorches the onyx void.
An orange cryptic surfer
on tangible, neon-waxed flame,
becomes the only border point,
carves the black-hole spectacle.
Craig thinks of poetry as hobo art. He loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He was nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a writing hiatus he was recently published in Poetry Quarterly, Decadent Review, New World Writing, Skinny, Neologism, Wild Violet, Last Stanza, Unbroken, W-Poesis, The Globe Review, Your Impossible Voice, Fairfield Scribes and has work forthcoming in Ginosko, Last Leaves, Literary Heist, Blotter, Quail Bell, Yellow Mama, Unlikely Stories and The Light Ekphrastic.