Operatic
Pop
I have lived enough to knife
through
precious indifference:
time
to say goodbye,
sang
Andrea
Bocelli through my
childhood’s
echoing eardrums,
banging
through the baseball
game
of stressful situations.
How
I overcame my fear of
public
speaking was when
I
was believed in, once,
to
deliver Wayne’s wedding
from
obliteration (green
in
the cleaved landscapes
I
scampered fully across)
and
the contentment rings
high
in vibrato today.
Cashing
Out
White plate spinning
on
the head of summer
god:
boredom
in
the breath of grass
illusion,
green
in
brain, in wiles, wet-
rag
fingertips pressed
against
nose, sanitation
breath,
crater of spirit, the
less
mortal, the mightier
morals,
if what you have
is
less than you entered.
Megan
Visits Pittsburgh
the south side emits strong drug vibes
the
incline’s return line up is half-an-hour long
we
wanted to catch a slow 7:30 sunset
we
caught twirling spiders over fast traffic instead
we
were supposed to go to Trace but they close
at
ten we go to Cobra for the purple Saturday
night
and everyone dances the best they can
except
for us. we watch.
Wall-Pounding
Street-Squawking
Lobe, hold this half-
life,
last hole on par–
rot
later. Protest now.
Forty Years From
Now, This Poem Will Make Sense (Disregard if Forty Years Have Passed)
I am sentient
enough– half-
asleep at the
wheel
I already
miss you
if I miss
my turn,
misguide
my controlling
hands into
another lane.
I have a tote
of sorrows
lugged
into a luggage,
third floor closet,
plastic blue bag
crinkling
in the night.
I wish–
I want–
you never
to read them.
This is a message
to me
from half
my current age–
though revelation
is what
I want
to avoid,
it is now
(was?)
true.
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