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So Long, Sunshine

Pack a year of partying into the week

before I flee Florida like a felon.

The only furniture I got left is:

a nightstand topped with smokes and a gun,

a silk fort of stolen pillows,

and a crate of BuzzBall seltzers.

That means 1,700 square feet of dancefloor,

secret threesomes with double the foreplay,

hitting the street at 100mph,

that grad card cash speeding

straight into coke baggies.

Flirting with the idea of seducing an officer,

premonitions on demolition of reputation.

Figuring out how to change my identity,

and fearing the freezing of my veins

every time I squeeze down another handle,

or pull the trigger on another nitrous nozzle.

Is it just flesh-on-metal contact or

do I have to rearrange my expectations

on how long a lifeline runs on for?

Maybe I’m not nervy enough,

but I’m trying, balancing risk and awareness,

fun and a full day’s rest, a respite from all the work

I don’t clock in for or count as continual progress.

Was straightedge until I left the ultimate party city,

which just seems cruel at this point, when I can still

hear the ocean-whispers trill in my ears and

differentiate between love for a person and a place,

hate for myself or a home state.

It’s not the same or any worse

than the navigating I left up to others.

I’m not the same, not much better, but

the gyroscope is engraved with my initials now.

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Suncoast Boulevard

From the street, my house looks like a spaceship.

No curtains, just big windows above a haunted hill

that blue lights strobe through until 6 AM.

I wander through those mornings, wanting

to find black holes with lives akin to mine.

Every evening, I hit the asphalt track,

head smoldering like a meteorite.

I hypnotize myself beside the highway,

hooves looping the woods like a lost Saturnian.

Maybe

my problem is I don’t remember where I come from,

so shouldn’t deign to think I deserve better.

The gravity of gratitude alludes me,

and I mosey on in search of more.

Maybe

the road-dashes that direct me toward my last residence

to play peeping tom/anthropologist again

demark only a southbound compass,

a trail instead of a trial for somebody else.

Maybe

when the owl starts its song

from behind the swath of trees,

he’s not asking whoo

will save him, but whoo

will keep the sun slain and

unshackle us from this orbit?

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Bio:

Paige Johnson is EIC of Outcast Press (@OutcastPress on TikTok, @OutcastPress1 on Twitter, Insta & Facebook). Most recently, her stories featured in Urban Pigs’ Press HUNGER,

Craig Clevenger’s Put Out The Lights & Cry: Diner Noir, Anxiety Press’ Mirrors Reflecting Shadows, and Cowboy Jamboree’s MOTEL. Her second poetry book, Citrus Springs, is out soon. The illustrated prequel, Percocet Summer, is available now.

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