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enjoy this Cara Losier Chanoine writing in the Scars / cc&d free 2016 PDF file chapbook: Bowetry (click on the front cover image or the title text to download the free PDF file)				You can also order this as a 2016 6" x 9" perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book! Click on the book cover to order Bowetry as a book at any time!

Order this writing in the book After the Blues the cc&d July-Dec. 2016 collection book		get the 318 page July-Dec. 2016 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Strangers When We Meet
Outside 1995

Cara Losier Chanoine

The music is happening outside—
it’s the kind of explosion that falls upon deaf ears.
The feasting of life, it’s happening now,
and it’s lights up, boys.
Your silhouette is so stationary.
It’s the kind of living that recognizes vanity,
flesh burning in its own glue,
and the pain must feel like snow.
Who’s been wearing our deaf ears?

This is your shadow
on my flesh and blood,
the pain turns the reeking flesh.
I was Ramona A. Stone,
until he jumped onstage
with a criss-criss machete,
put me on these interesting drugs.
He said,
My name is Mr. Touchshriek.
My shop sells empty females.
He pushed back the pigmen,
poor dunce.
His hands held a belief beyond
beyond,
little toys dripping
from the end of a gun.
See how far a sinful man
burned his bloody tracks.

I was an artist in a tunnel,
a night-fear female
suspected of being a shoulder surfer,
standing so near to innocent eyes.
I was that fading photograph
of a patchwork quilt.
I’ve spat upon the good-timing drone,
I shake the brutal vermin
at the sun.
I can’t control
the web we weave,
but the prison priests
are decent.
and the crazed diva’s hands
beat on.

What a fantastic, filthy lesson.
The youth advance
in all electric,
the little rose-kissed foxy girls
and little fragile champion boys
wanna be screwing when the nightmare comes
to these summer scumholes,
when a razor-sharp, crapshoot affair
re-explodes.

To have seen it all
is a tightening atrocity.
We’re living
in a safety zone, swimming
in a sea of sham,
and the silence flies
like an old hell.
Your custody calls,
but be sweet, spaceboy—
the chaos is killing me.
I stare at the watery moon,
at the clutch of life in thin skies
when the rain sets in.
Winter bleeds
on the girders of Babel,
but I see all the concrete dreams
thru these architect’s eyes.

Oh, if I had another broken man,
If I’d only paid my bill,
but nowÉ
Toll the bell,
pay the private eye.
If there was only some kind of future
in our cerulean blood.

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