by Nick Marino

 

He wanders in the reddish dust and yet his skin shines greenish, pale like oiled fish.

He rides to guide the incense smoke – it clings to him.

He rides to hear the whales, to dream of voices and he says he does hear things, though he’s
sheepish to admit it.

He shows up unannounced late at night and doesn’t speak much.

His face is strange – like a faded magazine.

He does not eat, or at least I’ve never seen him eat.

He loves to gaze out at the lights of San Diego far away. He says he’s never been there before.

He says his next stop is Gomorrah, that he’s on an urgent mission.

He loves the sound of a foghorn.

He has a father who is a man of wisdom, of prudence, of rationality.

His arms, his body are lithe but he keeps his legs covered.

He lamented the death of a spider but once smashed a mosquito between his two fingers.

He says he likes the rain, the way it warps the city lights.

He says he came from Mars.

He says he is alone in the universe.

His arms are always bared, he has no tattoos but there’s a thin unseemly scar on his shoulder.

He plays the electric keyboard, or so he says.

He came from a small town in Massachusetts where his father lives.

He says he is scared by the face of my mother.

He says he must be leaving soon.

He is on a strange and reddish road.

He enters Gomorrah, a madman, a seraph, a horseman sent from God

He leads the incense winds

He is singing

He is playing an electric guitar in the middle of the air

He is a pillar of neon flame, an operatic keening.

He sits by the sea, watching the ships, listening to the foghorns, to the whales

He weeps a brilliant glowing green that drips into the tide.

 

Nick Marino is a Maryland-based writer and visual artist. You can find his work on Instagram and Substack @nickcollinsmarino or in the pages of Opolis, Red Ogre Review or The Rush Review. This summer, he will be attending Iowa Young Writers’ Studio.