Paul J. Enea


Stroll In The Park

The part sulfur, part sour
musk of gunpowder ruins 
an otherwise blooming
downwind. My dog snorts 
and stamps to be rid of it 
but the aftersmell swells 
like sirens, then screams, 
snuffing fumes of family 
and meat. Everyone’s air 
under assault, the roiling 
odors of lives flashing 
before our eyes and no 
matter where we go 
there is only space for one. 
Off leash, my dog rolls 
in the redolence of deadfall,
masking his trail till 
he’s gone from our world.



The Blue In Jeans

I can no longer take my dog to parties.
Salty glands in partygoer’s privates 
emit a melancholy that stalls his tail. 
From crotch to crotch the story repeats: 
love is getting smaller in people, 
shame radiates like an empty bowl.
The crotch use to be the place to be,
the cultural center of a potential friend, 
as caramelized and odoriferous 
as Alexandria, a potluck of passions 
tucked away like family recipes, 
but lately my dog falls to the floor 
in despair, as if no one smells alive.



Kong Exits

On the flinty 
ledge of a B
movie skyscraper,
Kong resides
in sunrise 
shroud. His bin-
ocular gaze resigned
to the sight 
of wild 
men harnessed 
to spines of battle-
bellowing 
damselflies 
who cluster in hive
clouds & strike 
lightning 
against the mauve
Manhattan 
musk.  
He cannot climb
high enough. 
There are no 
sweet bamboo 
mountains  
in this stone
forest; he will 
not feel the windy 
brush of fern 
in his silver  
fur this far 
from the sigh 
of volcanos
or hear 
the purring
chorus 
of his family
feeding on flowers.

Paul J. Enea’s work has appeared in Cleaver Magazine, Porcupine Literary Arts, Portals & Piers, The Irish American Post, Blue Canary Press and other publications. He lives in Milwaukee, WI.

 
 

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