What’s the point? (Daniel J Flosi)

We expected our entertainment to save us. 

It won’t. Not between these hills,

under these watchful eyes;

the oak scattered across the sky, 

shatters in my hands.

Take the goose by the neck, flex.

Now we have a little more in common;

I also streamed the whole series

in a weekend, then rewatched each episode 

thirteen times while trying to fall asleep.

On the counter, leavening sourdough— 

our loneliness consumes.

We hold hands and between us

a tangerine the size of a tumor,

the skin, wet with afterbirth, 

feels like reins. Take

into consideration the time 

we consume:

trace around my shoulders and back, then 

announce : freckle, mole, or bite.

It’s okay if you bite, I don’t mind.

I love to waste 

time with you. The problem is, though,

when we put it on the scale

of grasshopper wings it doesn’t balance.

I’m losing my grip. Glory burns softly 

around the edges of our feet

and we stay home and watch the entire feast. 

What’s the point of joy if not again. Again. Again.


Daniel J Flosi sometimes thinks they are an apparition living in a half-acre coffin within the V of the Mississippi and Rock Rivers. Daniel is a poetry reader at Five South, and is the founder/EiC of Black Stone / White Stone. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Funicular Magazine, ELJ- Scissors & Spackle, Inklette, The Good Life Review, and Zero Readers and many more. Drop a line @muckermaffic


image: MM Kaufman