When the fairground closes like a thought we were afraid to finish. Music lifts its hands and leaves. Cups of sweetness, drained to rings. We walk home with sugar on our tongues and grit in our shoes. The body still wants what the clock has refused. Each bright thing carries
Things that are big to say Things that are easy to hear Things that come off wrong Things that have a bite Things that linger in the moment Things that linger for days Things unsaid Things unsaid for too long Things unsaid which felt just right The air of the
I. Liberation What even is that word Sounds flighty Preamble to mighty Or may I suggest its usage Is futile in the face of facing reality Facing realizations Facing your face in the mirror Reflecting responsibilities and routines There’s no liberating here Not now or later When so many
Her name was Ms. Harper. She was my grandmother but not by blood. Still, she held that role in the crook of her arm when I came to visit. I was young. Small enough to believe I’d always be young. I recall wanting to say something big, something worthy
This is where I was when I wasn’t Drifting somewhere between routines Moments of fun dotted along the numb Two people with the appointed moniker of parents Stationary yet drifting somewhere between responsibilities Safe, noisy, and delightfully fine Turn the page to the moral holiday Of rolling some pure
Snow Blanket. Everything frozen I turn to rock Crease of tequila eyes in snow-bounced light Only possibilities I ruminate The list of your transgressions I write I retreat a thousand ways as punishment trial by characters typed Neither alchemy nor by forged fire I am bronzed saint My fingers numb
You’ve forgotten every sky that stopped you, stopped everything but your breathing and your blood. Cumulonimbus stacking high beams from behind crossing every which way glorious alter of everwhere. Altocumulus, nimbostratus, and altostratus: thank you for your refractors your pinks and purples your affirmations it’s all ok. Atmosphere
As if to say… this is decay. These stones that I step and balance, I imagine a history. Here since the rock crumble, up from the overhang two hundred and eighty three years prior. I know they get refined every day, each like a twig gets whittled by the scout
The little hands across the desert flower On a western trail that’s seen western scenes On a blue sky morning before the heat Of yellows and greens and dots across the spectrum Of questions and complaints from little mouths As parents keep a pace that the children set As
To be young again that frequent stop along this passage for any and all trains running any and all nights you see the couples hear the quick double car horn beep beep picking up the date hear the murmurs of chatty pedestrians watch from your perch above this city stretch
Your mother brings us eggs Well she brings egg cartons You brought me eggs Well you brought me fatherhood You brought me the color orange Well the lenses that reveal this thing What it means as a dad Something I thought I’d seen Something I thought I knew
I. The monster’s artist statement You can intellectually contemplate Masterbate The felicity of the so-called Atonal What are you conducting? What is the effect? What is art actually doing to me? My prayer Be spared Embarrassment Sell a car without an engine Now, my friends, Now is the time