Anthony Thomas Lombardi

conversations with Chelsea Market

taking a shower at the Bates Motel



 

conversations with Chelsea Market

 
serve me the big dipper with
a slice of lemon so large, it topples
the glass over — spills constellations
                                       across your rose-pink table cloth.
 
cut your hair like Joan of Arc & tell
your secrets to the last person that made you laugh
                                                    so hard
             the sharp pain
                          still trickles down the back of your neck.
 
take a whisper-colored cab to Chelsea —
just to tell the sidewalks
             what a lark your tryst was.
 
you were vulnerable & your heart was
in the wrong pocket.
 
it’s okay if you lie because
you’re not lying. the truth doesn’t sound
                                       like the truth anyway —
 
it sounds like cobblestones & picked locks.
 
remove the splinters with the tweezers
you found at the bottom of your
                          lover’s purse —
                          they’re yours now.
 
use them to pick apart your horoscope
             & breathe
             in your worst intentions.
 
                                                    resolve to
                                                    try again.
 
 
 
 



 

taking a shower at the Bates Motel

for Rachel

 
i step out of Nosferatu & into a horror story
played with static electricity in real time. i don’t walk,
i stumble —
                          my face well acquainted with tile floors
                          & sidewalks, my lip prints stained
 
on bleach scrubbed marriages between foot & fall.
 
my wings are letters of note from fingers
                                       afloat
             & when they melt they become
             a live action Salvador Dali painting.
 
colonies of bees sign up for volunteer services,
picket line humanity to stop the term “milk & honey”
from appropriating their livelihood.
 
pulling a halo out of your mouth, your ribcage
blooms into an apricot. a neighborhood i’ve seen
                          in dreams
                                       if dreams were nightmares
& nightmares were a city only passed through.
 
we sleep soft on hard recognition
             & awaken
to violets          covering
a home on loan.
 
 
 
 


ANTHONY THOMAS LOMBARDI is a poet, writer, and former music journalist. He’s previously written for Under the Radar, Pop Matters, and The Big Takeover; has had his short fiction published by Abstract Magazine; his poetry published by Gravitas Anthology of International Poetry, Genre: Urban Arts, and Mangrove Journal; and is in the process of finishing his first poetry collection, “The Purple Tape.” He resides in Brooklyn, NY with his cat, Dilla.


BACKNEXT