What Kind of Man by Aoife Flynn

TONIGHT IS THE NIGHT I’M going to kill Rosalind Farrelly. Yes, the comedian. Or the comedienne, as she calls herself in her Twitter bio, though I can’t tell if she’s using the term ironically or not. Personally, I don’t like it. I mean, I understand calling it “Best Supporting Actress” at the Oscars, but other than for the sake of brevity, I don’t get why some women still attach themselves to those outdated gendered words.
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We pause by the crumbling pile of stone.
There’s a faded information plaque
which tells us we should stop to appreciate this ruin.

I could still feel the grass grazing against my fingertips
and the orange dots of heat that took over my sight
as I stared up into the sky, too close to the sun.

Longer days have more room for it.
The window divides none of the wind.
No garden better than brown.

What do I look like to you? Don’t be shy. Do you find me attractive? Repulsive? Charming? Scary? How about determined? Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Brainard Bullion and I am a certifiable creativity coach, a conduit to the sacred hermaphroditical muse, CYN. I reside in a Long Beach, New York rental unit that offers a partial oceanfront view. My passions include somersaulting in the nude and doing unusual things with eggs.

Stuck inside a glass eye,
a shatter-proof orb,
it means a lot when the wind is gold
with the seeds of dandelions
in a moss-carpeted field.
You have it
then you lose it

Drizzles and drops

Smacking the streets and wandering skulls harder than a hail of bullets

The sky as dark as a lifeless neighborhood on lockdown,
as overcast as mirror after a hot, long-winded, shower

The seats, dripping black and yellow, soaking wet,
the disposed leftovers spoiled

The cats and dogs whine and wail