The calamity of heavily contrasting signs and symbols,
the reversed heaving,
the white spit vitriol,
the desperate amnesia
that seems to say:
“we are the ‘only’, you are the ‘not’”,
while compulsively edging
an 0rgasm of void and persistently closed chapters-
all these things and more, we witness with glassy eyes
as we listen, incredulously,
to the sound of an impossible static
being emitted from the central radio:
a sunken diatribe
that clings to clothing
and shocks the keys out of hands.
Home is further and further away, we note.
And it’s true.
(I confess that I am locked out.)
Well, it’s almost September,
so Fall will soon be here.
We can feel the leaves molting
into a dark crimson beneath our skins,
the sound of rustling foliage
coming from our hands
as we squeeze them into fists.
We can intimate a rolling pressure
behind our eyes
as the barometer trembles
into the unlit future
(know that it may be cold there).
We can be privy to visions of greater circumstance
without opening our chests to the beats of others and, often, do.
(A drum, after all, is a hum, spoken.)
The thing is that the end is here with us
and we are coddling its resolve
since taking a leap towards an oncoming fist
would taste too much like copper.
So we recline our chairs
into open spaces
to profess the rights of monsters,
helping to file the very teeth that bite us
because we feel too intelligent to be unfair,
too frail to finger the contours of a rabid insecurity.
(Remember, the keys are on the floor now.)
Meanwhile, it’s almost Fall
and the sky is blue
and some streams of dark crimson trickle into the gutter, quietly,
or is it loudly?
(Some of we can’t recline into space without falling like comets.)
You see, there are greater angels to what we live.
And though we may not hear their flight
through those trajectories carved by arrows in the sky,
they are right above us
weaving tapestries of blood
so that we may create smoke clouds
when burning rightly,
or is it brightly?
(A drum is a sigil, unheard.)