Well, how the mighty fall, confessing into a tin can, “I
don’t remember this from years ago, but if it happened
it’s not alright, but it was years ago before I came here,”
as they roll down the Tower of Babel toward shallow
graves lacking topsoil so they won’t asphyxiate.
We hear you loud and clear, boys. No. The women you
looked through and threw yourselves onto said no
to you then, and we say no to you now. You’re about
to crash down and you won’t be dead, not yet. But
we’re clearing out the fog you’ve made with your breath,
so we’ll see you rising if you try this shit again.
An impatient pavilion awaits its decay.
Eight graves on the lip of the former
community lie under weeds and tree trunks
and their tightly donned shade. In the
night, the wind does not pick up;
the day finds everything in its place
as yesterday. Nothing will change today.
You don’t have to speak for me to know your apathy.
Your two-yard stare betrays you, your tracing right
to left across the page and off the page into the
space between my two eyes. Goodbye, you’re conveying,
to these headlines, and they’ll take their leave later
today decreeing, “Until we three meet again.”
At the back of a bar in Cleveland
one Sunday night, a man put down
his beer and told me he couldn’t
believe in the Apocalypse anymore.
His lips were calloused and thin, clinging
to his teeth, the color of jaundice.
They curled into a smile, and dimples
perched themselves off the smile’s tips.
When I asked him why he couldn’t believe
anymore, the dimples sank into his cheeks.
To keep my tears in, I kept my eyes shut
through all of last night.
I opened them at dusk and the tears ran
through my lashes and down into my mouth.
My cheeks are bulging out, but they are not
about to burst.
A group of schoolgirls from downstairs laughed,
and then the front door slammed shut.
Maybe the girls went out and took
their humor with them. Crickets
are chirping in the bushes along
the front porch, so maybe the girls stepped
outside and are about to laugh
to scare the crickets off their branches.
Crickets always make the loudest
sound on an early autumn night like tonight.
I will find time on Saturdays to sleep in.
I will be able to lie across my bed
through dawn. I will slip into imaginary
places and misremember that I have been
nowhere else, until I sit up inside
I will find that kind of time again. But
every weekday from today on, I will
wake up in twilight and go downstairs.
The world will illuminate as I sit in my chair.