Coney Island

I.

There are no rabbits here. It feels like the end of the world
and it is, or at least the last stop on the way there. I wandered
here looking for something. I only found others like me,
caught in the settling red, the rabbit blood. We're all on the island,
getting more lost from the land, sunk in the sand and then drowning,
down, down. At dusk the housing projects look like giant Christmas trees,
with their rows of regular windows strung ten stories high.
I've been in those hallways, dark. Reeking of piss and smoke.

II.

I smoke until I'm made of it, every cell. It fits me well,
the darkness, redness. Sitting on a throne of rabbit bones,
I disappear. The last rabbit died here years ago, maybe centuries,
slaughtered by pleasure, the onslaught of hot dogs, boardwalks,
Dream Land, steamboats, ruts left by traveling freak shows.
This island is land that is lost. They call it the fun place.
They call it the end of the world. I'm in love with an island
that doesn't exist. Not even the bones of the rabbits are left here.
Atlantis sunk under the sea. So will we. It's already sinking
in redness, in a haze of vaporized rabbit blood, rabbit breath.
They called it a wonderland. Wanderers flocked by the drove.