from YOU ARE IN NEARLY EVERY FUTURE

it begins with the opening

of a photographic catalogue

of all the skies

during the Reagan administration,

it begins with a hug gone wrong

at security checkpoint

with an autumn light

muscling its way

indoors it begins with

everyone scoffing;

everyone broken,

leaking, pixilated,

etcetera

it begins with

the understanding

that we will never

be monuments

never be prepared

to walk away it begins

with your entire life

represented on a bar

graph it’s plenty,

like a marching band

sans parade




             ◈




your breathing

is a performance art

a map of state

birds slowly

becoming extinct

a backroom

jazz, every tune

weathered with

a sort of

sidewalk

construction

it says everything

about you

nobody cares

to know




             ◈




the sound of human

beatboxes

throttle out of

God’s sneeze

you capture

it on film

and catalogue

it as an

insomnia

of skies

we look out

the window

until it is only

seagulls until

the lake has

slow danced

its way through

another season

never mind the air

with its holy breath




             ◈




your headache

is a graveyard

of mirror balls

dangling in

the glittering trees

where lightning

flirts the sky out

of focus, and all

the animals come

to camouflage

the night with

their footprints

brushstroking

the dampened earth

where the past never

really leaves you alone

there it is again

and again