The cool fresh air and things roll easily
down every and any city street, except
for the ones near the reclamation center,
then the smell of fried chicken is
all you can really taste as you’re
driving.
There is a constant push for more air
escaping the stench, avoiding the
creeping choking terror that haunts
the East Side.
There is some respite, though,
with that cooking chicken. And
some days you can
even smell the fish.
i would admire your fresh face
in the grass in your back yard
and how you could make something
out of nothing
climbing a big oak tree
that they had to cut down,
last summer
got too big for its own good
and what ended up lasting
or at least it seems to me
are the dimples on your face
creases left from the smiles
from last summer
losing balance
at least 20 feet high
too good to be true
ha!
you filled my mind this morning with dreams
of sheer terror and loss only to find myself
waking in a cold sweat finding she’s still here.
she hasn’t left me.
i awoke – due to dread – overwhelmed with
thanksgiving and remembered my life’s call
is to hear from you. implement. move forward.
as a soldier to not be caught up in civilian affairs
but to seek to please you. my commanding officer.
knowing my dreams are too small and my pride
always begs for fame i pursue things half heartedly
fearful of the praise inflating my head like the
last helium balloon of the batch. you know the one
where they just keep filling it to see how long it can
go before it pops?
that one.
but lo! an old fashioned ha! you woke me from dreams
of sheer terror. and i stepped into the day
steeped in, overwhelmed with, wrought with,
thanksgiving
Old records and the
sweet fresh air outside
the danker atmospheres
found elsewhere.
And late we consume
too late we consume
teeth ripping in to the
fleshy parts of you
and I and
you mostly.
The potential swelling inside a Saturday morning. Muted at the softness
of your hands. Folding and unfolding and folding again like your mouth.
The oceanic sound of passing cars, each corner taken; a tidal wave outside
the quiet of the room, but gentle. And always obsessed with nothing.
When we turn at the right moment, and a glance crystallizes, all the stillness happens.
All the sky turns white-wash and paints itself chalky against the city.
All the city lurches into a photograph of blacks and greys and blistering blues. You
are always, always, thinking.
the sieve and the sand 