Brad Liening

Leviathan
 
 
The skipper gets seasick
in the rain and high swells,
no gulls crying out here
 
where the green name
tattooed over his heart
fades into a light smear.
 
Who hasn’t discovered
with some degree of surprise
to be uniquely unfit
 
for whatever condition
now conspires against you?
A green sheen in the sky,
 
yesterday’s red weather
and today’s charting blunders,
the clouds wreaking havoc
 
before they vanish. Remember
that rich kid, the one who
imperiously ate glue?
 
Now he’s an imperious adult,
your boss’s boss’s boss,
sexually harassing the staff
 
by the foamy river gurgling
in the shadow of the rubble,
certain parts of the map
 
left blank or else blacked out,
meaning give a wide berth,
here be monsters,
 
welcome to your shipwreck,
your doomed drag race
across the beach at dawn.
 

The Bleeding Cure
 
 
The planet spins out of control
but does so very slowly.

No one notices the catastrophe because
it’s been a million years in the making

like being bled to death
since you were a baby.

Even so it’s hard not to feel
kind of dumb standing there

in your yard, hose in hand,
in some new plaid shorts,

dreaming of next year’s vacation
while all around you everything’s

drying up and blowing away.
What have you been doing

this whole time, anyway?
A bat flaps past your head

into a cloud
that’s on fire.