I say this, but to you it means that or worse, nothing.
A tree obscures a power-line, fried potatoes tower
over trembling pieces of yellow corn. Tassels grab
clouds that rip. Contents pour, orange juice scum
lingers on the lips of a tall glass. Stringy pulp tastes
a bit like the dream I had after falling asleep to the radio:
A boy I adore lies beside me on a floral couch,
leaning in as his girlfriend watches television.
He tries to hold my hand where she can’t see
before we kiss I hear a buzz and am sucked into
another scene… I wander hallways wondering
where everyone went. I find them being served
hot meals behind open stall doors of a crumbling
elementary school bathroom: chewing in unison,
flushing between bites. It is only now that I realize
I have lost all ability to tell time. Stop. Before you fall
and break your concentration, straining for understanding,
teetering on a rickety step-stool somewhere near the Z’s…
I find myself reading this back wondering where it all went wrong…
I unholster my gun
to become my hero
and his hero
and his hero’s hero—
Pull the trigger
and write another fucking poem.
