I'm sitting outside at a coffee shop that is empty of people save for me and the
person at the counter who fell over a broom they placed directly behind their
own feet. The sun is gray, and the rain is shining. All the tables are glossy
with the ash of trees and the velvet of graffiti. I like it here. I keep the
library of cement blocks company as they grow columunious weeds out of their
bodies like smokestacks. Clear bottles of tears sit atop all the tables, each
falsely, obviously, marked Hand Sanitizer. Someone left a ballroom shoe near a hula-hoop and a gleaming trophy the exact shape and size of a trash
can. There are little rocks everywhere, and when I press my toes in the earth my
wet body sinks into the wetter sand. I really like it here. There's music in my
head. It sounds like astronaut dreams and an electric surge. It makes my fingers
make letters that make words like Astronaut and Surge. The music has titles, and I
really like those too. Here are some titles from two albums, no words added, few
words left out, most words rearranged (though aren't most words rearranged? No matter matter.):
Le Souvenir des Temps Soudaine
Every
ending is heartfelt
impermanence. Skin was only shelter
when words like throw
were still.
The valley glitches in afternoon
strobes. L'invisible unravels into
a static coast. Our obedient stutter
shall flourish and fade like pyramid
heat at twilight. Intention is bright
meadow beauty, shrouded
soft bells that
toll objectively
yellow. Your amber
shape swirls me clock-
wise into a river of trombones.
A sea of xeroxed candy.
But I am no miracle
Other. I carry you by broken
traveler hands. This place
is
only wind. Is only particles.
Take my sky, my name, my verses
like film credits. Tomorrow
(too) the stars heal their disguise.
* * *
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