There’s a place I stand in the woods with tree-lined eyes. I stand there sometimes below several high steel bodies. Electrical towers humming–six arms and long cords attaching like long thin sperm poised to eat each other’s ends. The towers need these bonds. It’s their kissing and talking. When humans want to communicate they just open their mouths and whisper hello and they scream goddammit and they say I love you and they yell touch me and they spit out their tongues and lick each other into puddles. The towers are locked into a constant intercourse–static sock-choked nights. It’s hard to forever suck lightning through straws that span for miles. It’s hard to imagine B. Franklin spending more time with a kite than a woman. He wanted the towers trapped in a hillside orgy. When I look at the towers I know what they’re dreaming. Franklin wired up to a transformer–metallic cables flowing out of his mouth and ass. If towers could talk, I’d listen. I’d lie down in the night’s grass and listen.
P Edward Cunningham resides in Western Pennsylvania. He co-edits Radioactive Moat and serves as the Asst. Managing Editor of SLAB. He writes screenplays and poems and some of those poems have appeared in or are forthcoming in Open Thread, DOGZPLOT, Ghoti/Fish, and wtf pwm. A book of essays, This Boy / This Broom is forthcoming from BatCat Press. He blogs at yellowlightbulbs.blogspot.com.