Pineapple Crush & Other Poetry by Adrian Slonaker

Online Open Mic -2021

Come ponder with me the fantastic poetry of Adrian Slonaker! He told me of how the first and third poems were created specifically of this time in winter and around the pre-Lenten Carnival season, making it the perfect time to read his great work.

My Favorite Line: “I test my winter-worn eyes in
the brightness of Carnaval-stained daylight,
my direction-impaired feet in a frazzle of plazas and calles,
my Anglo ears in a labyrinth of Rioplatense voseo,
my demoralized morale on a continent not blackened by
blemishes in devotion or family humiliations.”


“Pineapple Crush”

As a city shivers within stabbing distance of that dastardly Neptune’s trident,
Nor’easters savage the Atlantic lands laden with lobsters and fiddlehead ferns
that lure tourists in the mild months of non-pandemic years,
sending residents puffy in parkas and anoraks
scurrying up ice-licked streets and stairs to stores and kitchens
prepped with pineapple pop because bubbly sugar highs and
fake flavours artfully suggesting sunshine and sultry hues
and heat not expelled by a power-gulping appliance
deliver vitality in Voltaire’s “few acres of snow.”


“The Lord Exists on Tinder”

A swarm of photos whooshed past
at warp speed while a
spindly finger swiped through
one hundred sixty-one kilometres’
worth of
prickly pickup lines and
fish and antlers and
telltale scammers
and less conspicuous
transaction seekers
as the teal stars and rose dots of
superlikes and matches morphed into
motley messages,
one from a musclebound millennial
called Andrew
delving into
a discussion of God
and His unfazed indifference to
the facial hair preferences prescribed by
preachers of fanaticism
plus a plea
for theological live-and-let-livism
voiced among the emoticons and
GIFs.


“When Vanishing Acts Were Possible”

Across the world’s waistband,
beyond the Tropics of Cancer and
Capricorn that I crossed on an overnight
flight with gnarled nerves and a wheeled valise,
I test my winter-worn eyes in
the brightness of Carnaval-stained daylight,
my direction-impaired feet in a frazzle of plazas and calles,
my Anglo ears in a labyrinth of Rioplatense voseo,
my demoralized morale on a continent not blackened by
blemishes in devotion or family humiliations.
In the era before email and Facebook,
when an enervated soul could sink into a curtain of cigarette smoke
at dusk and become lost to follow-up without
the tendrils of friend requests
or the sneaky snares of search engines,
I could trek off the craggy cliff of a crisis
and escape to a new lifescape beckoning me
with confidence and oblivion.


Artist:

Dreaming about palm trees, rose quartz and life’s quirky mysteries, language professional Adrian Slonaker lives in snowy Moncton, New Brunswick, Canada. Adrian’s work, which has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, has appeared in WINK: Writers in the Know, Gnashing Teeth, The Pangolin Review and others. 

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