1 hour ago
On Finding Stairs to Nowhere in the Woods
Behind Your House
Mark would say that time was just a reflex notion
in the spine, a river funneling the same chromatic fish
back to the puddle where it learned to multiply
when he was still alive. My parents never looked at anyone
except each other, they would drive that bus without regret
through endless squares of nowhere because Life’s too short or,
alternately, Hey, we've got the time. So many cows
we’d never meet, hills stretched out like billboards, the idea
of vacation as a postcard buried in my brother's hidden swimsuit
magazine, its terrifying women: time had made them ageless
teeth immune to any stain. Before my sister gave birth to a child
who only talks in poems, none of us had any clue
how boring were our lives. The best of them all end
with someone bleeding and begin with This one time.
Time is running shirtless through your wedding party
flask in hand, asking the MC if he knows
where to find a grand piano, touching all the bridesmaids
and embarrassing himself. You'd hate him
if he wasn't always good for a convenient bump,
the baggie stashed reliably behind the hand machine.
Time always leaves a little less than what you need,
the reason addicts like you and your desperate heart
keep coming back for more.
Behind Your House
Mark would say that time was just a reflex notion
in the spine, a river funneling the same chromatic fish
back to the puddle where it learned to multiply
when he was still alive. My parents never looked at anyone
except each other, they would drive that bus without regret
through endless squares of nowhere because Life’s too short or,
alternately, Hey, we've got the time. So many cows
we’d never meet, hills stretched out like billboards, the idea
of vacation as a postcard buried in my brother's hidden swimsuit
magazine, its terrifying women: time had made them ageless
teeth immune to any stain. Before my sister gave birth to a child
who only talks in poems, none of us had any clue
how boring were our lives. The best of them all end
with someone bleeding and begin with This one time.
Time is running shirtless through your wedding party
flask in hand, asking the MC if he knows
where to find a grand piano, touching all the bridesmaids
and embarrassing himself. You'd hate him
if he wasn't always good for a convenient bump,
the baggie stashed reliably behind the hand machine.
Time always leaves a little less than what you need,
the reason addicts like you and your desperate heart
keep coming back for more.