The massive plastic rafts get passed on and
loads of new patrons climb aboard,
looking to face a hundred million gallons of white water,
and perhaps find something out there.

Our love has come and gone,
the trip down the Pigeon River behind us,
and we multitudes sorely pack the busses again.
We flop into out shared experience--
a brown leather seat with absolutely no buckles
in case of the end.
We are headed home.

The highway is constant and clear,
and the bus bucks and ebbs and soon
we are convinced it is the mother of us all.

The boy next to me begins to bob his head like a boat at sea
and soon, he capsizes onto my right shoulder.

I don't move, cherishing my place in his
momentary grace;
the calm part of his tumultuous river,
the cigarette to his stooping weathered old man.

Not after a long time,
he shakes awake,
lifts his head and is clearly embarassed.
He doesn't grin or apologize,
just makes small talk, moves slowly forward
down this relational river.

The kids on this bus see a tunnel coming towards us,
and it is subsequently announced.
"Tunnel ahead--everyone hold your breath!"

Everyone gasps as we enter the ground.
It is dark, and I am grateful for this moment,
and I breathe deeply for the first time
a breath not shared.

Cool zoo--
dry ground--
the kind meerkats treasure,
perfect for tunnels to escape sunlight,
and reside in--
be a part of--
whatever it is that's holding everything up.

It was December in Florida,
and the cold hung silent in the air;
as if someone spoke, heaven's branch might snap,
and snow would fall all at once,
and cover animal exhibits.

Christmas lights--
tiny suns,
each thinking its gravity formed the center of the universe,
connected by this green vein that seems to connect everything.

I watch my partner exhale,
my partner's breath resembling snow,
and somewhere in the distance,
we can hear a hyena cackling at my joke untold.

once i went to a baseball game and our team lost 8 - 4.
at least i think they lost.
we left at the top of the 8th because the town felt full beneath our feet.
my friends and i sank into the night.
we went to the river and watched the street lamps pour orange juice into the water,
watched it waver with the rise and fall of our voices, our laughter. someone got ****** and someone sang "lean on me" by bill withers. bill withers was divorced when he was thirty-five and then lost it all to the music, man.
standing still as violent criminals, we watch, and listen for a long time, we feel briefly for our friend who's parents are separated, but no one wants to linger on those parts of life.
someone (possibly the ****** someone) wishes he could sleep and never wake-up
and some of us ask him why.
he doesn't answer for a very long time, and when he does, his voice sounds like running water.
"we would never know we are sleeping, only that we never need to sleep."
we all just stay, and stare for a long time, until someone asks for another song,
but, no,
now I am tired, and I wish to go to sleep,
and in the morning, I can open up the fridge,
and have a large drink of orange juice,
right from the carton.

I can't hear the cars,
but I can see them;
the rush of tiny sun-reflections moving south, towards the suburbs.

I can't hear the footsteps,
old men in hand with little boys--
each crunching the crunchiest leaf,
and then the next crunchiest,
and then the next--

The postman;
the couch;
the Sunday afternoon.

Once, in seventh grade,
I took a class in a portable
that had a bathroom built in.

I sat behind a girl
with brown hair
that always smelled like dryer sheets.

When she would write,
her shoulder blades would
glide under her cardigan

as if the wind of grace
was making waves
on the skin of her back.

When she stood up
her eyes moves to mine--
the only mobile dots on a freckled complexion.

She walked behind me
into the bathroom
and I listened to her ****
while the teacher explained
that X isn't always greater than Y.

Desk creaks under pile of calendars
Desk creaks under pile of calendars
Arranged like candy below a piñata
Arranged like candy below a piñata
Candy pile arranged below like creaks;
Calendar of desk under a piñata

I have not seen a new movie in a year
I have not seen a new movie in a year
I wonder what it is that I have missed
I wonder what it is that I have missed
I I I that is it.
A wonder movie in a missed year, what have not seen have new

It is time to walk about the place
It is time to walk about the place
I get up and sit down, my *** growing bigger
I get up and sit down, my *** growing bigger
Place bigger time up my ***
Growing down about the walk, I get to sit and is it

Sit in creaks under a bigger year
I have time to wonder what is arranged of calendars
I get *** like a piñata growing candy
I walk up and down the movie
It is that desk I have not missed about my new place
Seen it below a new pile