Until Tomorrow


i light a quick cig & have a seat while the rain slowly sets in. a woman begins citing the new words of her god,
the new sunken scripture:

“it’s a new age on planet earth!” before pacing her step & clapping her hands “it’s the eighth day! june tenth, twenty-sixteen. june tenth, twenty-sixteen. i grew up in…”
then she vanishes.

i make a quick stub as i go, bellowing across the street, into the underpass of the city sewers:
the subway.

the track is merging together as the rain picks up & the conductor yells and mimics a parrot with a foul mouth & odorous breath. the mechanical heart of this city keeps beating
with belts & tires & raging neon light

the slumps of expository science
the dumps of gutterbugs & termites
the slumps of a land/broken with defiance
& a slummy window-clean & bearded compositor breaking into fights
all clash on the street like nickels & dimes

the laundromat is closed & i’d better get home. to the backyard. to the bonfire & medicine.

men live as fireflies. flickering against the glass, until they drop. i heard you like to play with matches. that, that you like the way they light.
the way they burn.
i heard you like to play with razors & switches against the wall.

i know it’s getting late, but if it’s all the same
i can’t wait for the eternal summer to kick in &
watch the world catch flame








Jordan Lucien Pansky has difficulty telling if his work is poetry or prose, lately. He normally runs the tap, and see’s what happens. He enjoys sadness & is sick of fun.