You can hear the
suburban chime, zirconia vertebrae, pearly white spine.
Glass thrown in stone houses, a regular suburban night,
whirring, rewinding. Chronicled childhood in olive drab paint,
monocle glass.
Wormwood and bottles of Shawshank
dissolute solitude. A wanderer who wallows in the maze
en route, delaying for tomorrow, never promised today.
A virgin diary, Anne Frank, Marie Curie disease, a tincture of rainbow,
even if the distance is blurry to me, he who knows the way to Zihuatenejo.
Furloughed father, demanding you to die when I say so,
26 pesos left in your wallet
lint and mothball, Merryland experiment omelette.
Laundromat arcade quarter exchange
2 o’clock shadow of death and follicle strain.
These boulders were supposed to be gone when I got here,
you shouldered me off, Sunday morning penny loafer with frost,
social commentary Gabriel-Lucifer talk,
metamucil retrograde, Jupiter star.
Bolivian roast, oblivion, and a toast goes to Mars,
you hold my hand, but I don’t even know who you are,
shout at me when indoors, but whisper weak when afar.
I’m so close to eroding, skin growth barely a scar,
in my house, the big wolf, lungs pulse ’til exhaustion.
I read a suicide note from the ghost in my closet,
I don’t know if he knows if this apartment is haunted,
by patriarchal pettiness, reminiscent negligent heart,
maleficent maligned, distant and forgotten insidious offspring,
with ammunition in their lips that keep you off guard.
Feel the metacarpal love letters ’til your fingers fall off,
once you step out the door, you hear the wooden creak in the floor.
Fell asleep at the creek daydreaming before,
every time before bed I hear footsteps coming from deep,
and I hide in my closet, until they delete.
REM hits me while I’m counting my sheep
counting rosary beads for every step wolf takes towards me,
like neighborhood freeze tag, counting to three.
Dysfunctional beings huffing in suburban breeze,
I know that I know nothing is in love when I speak,
into denizens, the medicine cabinet creaks,
when you close it and I haven’t heard it in weeks,
from bourbon to curtains burnt at the seams.
I’m so close to being the opposite of perfect, I scream.
What emerges, a bird sits perched in a tree,
what alerts him is the suburban breeze.
Fötter Day Reverie: Suburban Breeze and Whispered Dreams
