“I was thinking about this the other day.”
“The past is like a foreign country, they do things differently there.” L.P. Hartley
a fundamental force, and Christmas,
and “the customer is always right.”
rich plumage skin fragrance, expressions behind sunglasses, an anthology of taste and textures
Your mundane movements cinematic finesse.
Say I am a new box of shoes, and positive horoscopes, and the queue out the door, and hungry lungfuls of immediacy attention vitality curiosity and for you I AM DATA SPIKING OFF THE CHART
We are farmland and a florist’s
DREAM; a constellation mapped, snow globe
PERFECTION and mathematical
Bodies with natural tactile choreography little rehearsal anyone could see our candid aesthetics sleek silver ergonomic design exposed hardware unabashed we wore crowns we tried sprinting the marathon
We KNOW, and we are CONVINCED.
I am the high beams the harmony the notary
to your autobiography I know and I sing your slang your tides your cadence your heat
I am your Kevlar, the patron of your art
the jittery muscles in your taut pelvic cavity s m i l e.
I am my own beast of burden always yours too; my shoulder the kickstand
to the thoughts wheeling like tandem bicycles in your head.
But the non sequitur, the Monday to your weekend plans
stop-and-go traffic trite greeting cards pieces that are too “matchy matchy” the creeping melanoma mole
a porno that only makes you think “that’s someone’s daughter”
pollution in the river
a passionate apathy settling into something like…like
It is RELENTLESS.
Yellow YIELD, splinters in the hands plundered treasure
unclenchingofaf i s t f u l of strings of red balloons
third degree burns, a parachute refusing to open
screeching and careening structural integrity collapses like a dying star
the Richter scale OVERturned and OVERwhelmed
I am the heavy ten measure rest
The thunderous breaking of the shelf from the iceberg
The silent passing into the next life.
I am your competition, the dynasty is over, the fruit of your labors
the ugly philistine in your museum the unacquired taste
Dust and staleness settling over our browned history
I am your alma mater, your dead language.
Success story snobbery, emotional armed robbery —
All these thoughts I’ve defined in you
And as I look to you now, with your new commitment
(inspiring both malicious arrogance and crippling insecurity in me)
I can’t help but think of what you might think
of the exchange rate between me and this motherf-cking
I can’t speak for you, but I am I am I am I am
out of ideas about this.
I was just thinking about this the other day.