And how do I tell you
That you thought wrong
That the world wasn’t round
But a flatland that drips guilt
And conceit and warmth?
And what if I told you
That people are neither right or wrong
But tangents of others in times forgone?
And how do I tell you
Magenta, like the taste of your lips against mine
The blurring of the galaxy as our limbs intertwined.
Whiskey, like the summer sunsets we had by the lake
Where we skinny-dipped and I almost broke my spine.
Subdued, like when the tide is on the ebb
How we sat out like fowl, watching Helios and Selene align.
Vermicular, like the perforations on fancy cigarette filters
And the state of my feelings attempting a line.
Like the immutable tittering of the wind over the ocean
And the intractable essence of man himself
Always finds its way,
Unlike fate or destiny
You shape it mediocrely, unknowingly,
Releasing it upwards into non-existence
Hoping that maybe someday-
When it descends
To discombobulate your every circumstance
You barely even feel it.
He screeched back into the kitchen
With his gaze set fast on the television.
And the mute Señora Garza shuffled out
Her withered hands moulded through countless years
And meal preparation.
She smiled a modest smile
Spotted and patched with gaps
And though her body wilted
Her vitality was sound.
And let me tell you
That I’ve never had a burrito
That fucking big
Or that fucking good
For the rest of my life.
If not for Señora Garza
I’d probably think twice;
Go round the corner
Where they hire models
To make half-assed meals,
And I could pretend.
And do you not venture
In places that you’re not supposed to?
The thrill restricted,
Like pain I’ve inflicted.
And had I not told you
The horizon was where the world ended-
Would it have irked you enough
To find out on your own?
In what felt like eternity, Rick wooed Julie that night in his stupor, making her promise to come back to see him. She too, not fully aware of the otherworldliness that whiskey is known to bring with it, took his hand, soul and mind, forever stealing his thoughts and desires for herself. They teased and tittered into the night, and he stayed by her side till the morning under a Eucalyptus tree that couldn’t mask her scent at all. If it wasn’t for the rotation of the Earth, they would have been lost in their dark seclusion for a moment yet again. But the sun rose, the world resumed its state of nature and Julie’s bus left ten minutes before eight.
At 70, he was a man who wrote cheesy love songs.
He would play at ratty children’s birthday parties,
For cash-ridden couples and homeless romantics.
And every Monday for forty-five years
He would make his way down to the bar.
With his guitar slung tightly at open-mic, he would point to the young men and say,
“I hope this never happens to you
Though I’m sure it probably will.”
Then he’d smile for a while from cheek to cheek
As if it were a different time.
Between tolls of knolls and mighty terrain
There’s a hundred thousand giants asleep,
They wake up sometimes and move shit around
So trekking is a hassle,
They look like life and death and fear
Depending on weight and size,
On Sundays and Thursdays they roll down boulders
From atop the hill to the village.
We know they are there
And will be for years
Increasing in terms of matter,
We don’t mention them much
On days of joy
And on days we have fairer weather.