The squeaks of your flip flops,
echo throughout the land.
The lone sound of 5 am
before the war begins.
Looking out over the water,
still,
a mirror made from the elements.
A beauty that is easy
to get lost in with thoughts,
during this calm before the storm.
The silence is acknowledged
for two extra minutes before
the monstrous thumps occur.
The ogres wanting to enter
a land that they believe is there’s
when looking at the fine print we learn
it belongs to all.
Try to tell the ogre that
as they grunt and shove
their way through the entrance.
Puny in comparison,
you monitor them from within.
The bubble office your only protection from,
a decision between life and death.
The ogres begin their first fight,
the rightful ownership
of a hole to store their belongings.
Because you yourself are not an ogre,
you are spared from a possible death.
Two thumps and a cackle
is a sign that one less will be going for the mirror this morning.
They rampage through the room of caves
and appear all at once before the mirror.
Sticking your head through the only window of the bubble,
you watch as the ogres shove their ways to their favorite spot,
then cannonball into the mirror;
breaking its pristine glimmer
as the fragments splash on the deck.
Another morning at the pool,
easier than others in the past,
you only wait for the next death
from an ogre who dared to be different.
BY RANDALL MANN
I found my muster
station, sir.
My skin is patent
leather.
The tourists are
recidivists.
This calm is earthquake
weather.
I’ve used up all the
mulligans.
I’d kill to share a
vice.
The youngster reads a
yellowed Oui.
The socialite has lice.
The Europe trip I
finally took
was rash and Polaroid,
was gilt, confit, and
bathhouse foam.
And I cannot avoid
the end: I will not die
in Paris,
won’t rest for good
behind
a painted mausoleum
door.
The purser will not find
me mummified beneath
your tulle,
and Paris will not burn.
Today is Thursday, so
I’ll die.
Come help me pick my
urn.
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