by Kelly Jones
Kelly is a queer poet-librarian-baker who currently calls the Piedmont of NC their home.
The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory
-The Dalí Museum, St. Petersburg, Florida
It is cold inside. I stand shivering
before the painting. I stare
at broken trees, crumbling ground,
and a dead fish floating at the surface.
A sheet of water is strung from a branch.
Time melts beneath it. Beneath my sheets
I create memories. Sometimes
I wake from a dream, trembling
like a finger tired from overwork.
Outside, it is hot and the water is tempting.
Birds are flying and boats are bobbing upon the bay.
Someone tell me what holds a beach together.
Now that I Live in a Small City
Things start on time and end early. On the way back to the car after a concert at a coffee shop, I laid down on the sidewalk to befriend a stray cat. Last summer my housemates came home drunk, after indulging in tequila suicides and PBRs. They sat in the kitchen eating popcorn while giving each other stick-n-poke tattoos of ghosts that in the light of day looked more like slightly misshapen penises. Here we make our own fun and know that nothing really lasts forever.
 Snort the salt, down the shot, squeeze juice of lime slice into the eye