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When I hold you, these arms race. My heart breaks and beats. The watery no-time of old age looms and I realize that I am alive now. Here. Shivering and in the wrong place like a cheerleader at a hockey game but happy. I’ve turned too many women into horizons. I am a dying elk. There are stakes in my shadow, tent poles keeping my heart on a camping trip. Pain is in the fingertip and I’m ready for seat-belt affirmations. Press play.
I suppose for the sake of fortune, we must be aboriginal in our own dream country. Our own lives have to dance for us cheaply and by candle light. The skull sings in the meat, hidden and obese behind the curtain. We are all super heroes. Each trick-or-treat soul keeps safety hidden under mitten piles in the cloakroom. This is winter’s solace. We are more aware of our own warmth than ever.
Each lizard scale of envy, each wrinkled peach pit of regret, each gravel plant bear trap of sadness that lightning-forks its way into our mouths when we sleep will kill us. Cumulative. Additives adding up to fate weathering our riverbeds into canyons. Paint on us. Slap us. Anything that causes feeling is better than the alternative. Shake us into waking.
If you are old school, then I am Ringling brothers on meth. A clown car running red lights with everyone I’ve ever been wrestling for position but no one’s near the wheel. You are push-ups under blue lights. You are dance tracks in arenas. I am a dominant theme veining through a poorly written essay about the secret origin of gold. You are trained cats shaking their heads in amusement, fooling everyone. You are a dark kite lifting skirts in time to music. Prom night has nothing on you.
For eleven years, the anchor flips and becomes a balloon. It’s all a matter of perspective. I’m standing on my head. There’s a lot of room in here for you.
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I suppose for the sake of fortune, we must be aboriginal in our own dream country. Our own lives have to dance for us cheaply and by candle light. The skull sings in the meat, hidden and obese behind the curtain. We are all super heroes. Each trick-or-treat soul keeps safety hidden under mitten piles in the cloakroom. This is winter’s solace. We are more aware of our own warmth than ever.
Each lizard scale of envy, each wrinkled peach pit of regret, each gravel plant bear trap of sadness that lightning-forks its way into our mouths when we sleep will kill us. Cumulative. Additives adding up to fate weathering our riverbeds into canyons. Paint on us. Slap us. Anything that causes feeling is better than the alternative. Shake us into waking.
If you are old school, then I am Ringling brothers on meth. A clown car running red lights with everyone I’ve ever been wrestling for position but no one’s near the wheel. You are push-ups under blue lights. You are dance tracks in arenas. I am a dominant theme veining through a poorly written essay about the secret origin of gold. You are trained cats shaking their heads in amusement, fooling everyone. You are a dark kite lifting skirts in time to music. Prom night has nothing on you.
For eleven years, the anchor flips and becomes a balloon. It’s all a matter of perspective. I’m standing on my head. There’s a lot of room in here for you.
tags