In the Headlights

Phoenix Roberts

Highway face: red eyes bloody mouth veiny brow

Lines of stabby triangles to bite tailgaters in half

Moon caught them and they were made of plastic

“That’s my boyfriend” I lied, “His name’s John. He likes long strolls along the lake of fire -

We’re very happy together. There will be a Church wedding.”

Saint Paul names truth a shot that misses the mark he

Says that sight can only be as through a glass darkly

In some translations he says it uglier

People whose jobs it is to know insist the blemished versions are more honest

This is deeply unsettling, in that nobody should have a job of any kind

Keats names truth beauty

The earlier stanzas end with seashore question marks

Curving with the gentleness that coaxes shards of see-through turquoise on to the beach

This one ends with a boulder: .

Other stuff should also be named beauty

For example, a hard cock

A clown mask seen duct-taped to the back of a truck

An intricate cross paraded between fragrant smoke tendrils reaching reaching up

Beauty: to be so brightly confronted with a splintered fraction of unthought otherness

That the senses insist direct contact?

Other stuff should also be named glass

For example, an ad for pussy razors

A hand splattered with halloween-product-factory-callouses

A limp cloth in red white and blue droning dull as shit heresy up up behind the pews

Adjectives for revolution: necessary, moral, aesthetic

Which is to say that on our wedding day I’d like to see John,

The disembodied extra-dimensional clown’s head to whom I am engaged,

Face to face