The Fire District By Michael Bernstein
Differentia Press Santa Maria, CA
2|The Fire District
The Fire District By Michael Bernstein Copyright © 2010 All Rights Reserved. Published by Differentia Press Book Design by Felino A. Soriano Cover Art, courtesy of Duane Locke Except for the sole purpose for use in reviews, no portion of this book may be reproduced in any form, without the written permission from the publisher. Differentia Press Santa Maria, CA 93458 submissions@differentiapress.com
Differentia Press Poetic Collections of the │Experimental Spectrum│ differentiapress.com
3|The Fire District
The Fire District By Michael Bernstein
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...through neon heat disease... ...I swear at the swarming herds... ...I sweat the foul terrain... -Adrian Belew
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grey,yellow
.each object’s instance slurred,haunted
w/spider legs its doors fan out.and light
blocks of mums, strange.in hunger
for the flame they 8|The Fire District
give cloth, hair,a lack hand
to envoke.the onyx windows gleam
blistered w/jetwash& bright
dead leaves. in the brain of it
our ticket explodes& 9|The Fire District
rocks the carcass—
bad dream’s spasm.all thru the grid
speech withers,hips grind&cyclones shake the night
nauseous, rife w/ holes.as memory goes south
the pall 10 | T h e F i r e D i s t r i c t
remains naked, pure gluttony
a skyline of knives.to enter:
a membrane, fevered& raw.in Space
the Fire District screams (is dreamed.into solidity
11 | T h e F i r e D i s t r i c t
its cinder blocks churn, get up&replace each other
in the dense frieze of slums.a balance is struck—
whirring &dumb. the district spins wicked
at all points,its tenants boil in tiny rooms—
12 | T h e F i r e D i s t r i c t
dread apparatus in hand.eyeballs
scrape the rugs,turn vipers out in clots
no hope for cure or calm. weightless
we wait lives,it seems, stare wistful
13 | T h e F i r e D i s t r i c t
at its hemorrhaging Moon
~~~
His face an army: pit crew
for the lesion streets. we keep coins
against his goony tolls,weird
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games to drain their husks, weird
even in fire. the ticker throbs
swollen w/ crude.and a noart
dirge.from the circus lamps
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we hang, heavy as sin
w/all our hopes against the News
beaming in the dead sky whorl
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