Selections from
 Fractals of Past

by Benjamin Arnold

depress

one thing into another
then things spun
into thangs

sharpies and notebooks
then
aerosols and alleyways

airsoft pops
turned into
real bangs

a wannabe thug
got his name crossed out
now Luis can't even breathe

I wish we could go back
to when graf writers
weren't confused with gangs

but no
my friend didn't live
in the old school

he's now depressed
into this earth
way too soon
 

Small Odds in Reno

No clocks, no windows.
Plenty of booze and fools.

This place is so close to hell,
I can see sparks in the bright
blinking lights of the biggest
little racket in the world.

I can’t take this anymore—
watching confused souls
choose to paint brick sidewalks
with their own blood and piss.

Maybe my friend in Fallon will lend me some money.
I could bus it along the loneliest road,
then work for my brother in Provo
until the first snow, maybe head for Humboldt.

A kid with pale-golden hair
wanders through the leaning light
of the bus’s aisle—
bounces off seats’ slashed edges.

He nudges the drunk—
another who lost
his last whisper of hope
trying to seduce snake eyes into seven.

Lakes shimmer on the cracked floor
of an ancient ocean’s ghost.

The sun’s glare scorches my eyes,
scars my brain.

A dust devil flings
balls of weeds,

attacks the Harrah’s billboard
that’s planted along the black river.

The bus shakes
to a stop in Austin.

The drunk man limps to the front,
little towhead fisting his shirttail.

Passengers visit real bathrooms
and browse the tiny sand-soaked store.

We continue rolling east and I realize
the man, and the kid, did not join us.

A microcosm of dust stars hovers
and shifts above their seat. 

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