My sister is a tire wheel, she keeps rolling. I’m a kite string, I get cut when I get tangled up. Call me Mr. Woodpile, I burn slowly over the seasons, over the years. My car is parked out front with a blonde girl looking at her watch waiting in the driver’s seat. I’m upstairs with a glass of whiskey trying to figure out if I love her. If I love her. If I love her.
If I love.
My watch has a picture of a Russian submarine on it. On the news they’re talking about a Tweet some movie star sent while he was drunk in France and I’m shaking loose Froot Loops into a bowl of sugary milk. And I might be overly dramatic but I sometimes wish I was a bear and could hibernate for four months and come out and gorge on sun and salmon.
I wish I was the summer sun.
Beating down. Burning your skin.
There is a little cabin by a little creek in a pitched set of woods miles from the city. Inside the little cabin, a little man tries to speak. But he can’t say what he really feels, and he can’t put it on paper. He can’t undo time. And he can’t escape the feeling that the train can take him back to the city, but it can’t take him back to himself, to that other time. Because he is now the creek and the woods and the sky and the warm sensation he gets when soil drips through his fingertips. Her face in a photo by the fire. He throws it in the fire and watches the phantasmagorical colors shift through hypnotic hues until he’s submerged in a filibustering dream.
We are the words we form.
The shape of our lips when they emerge.
The ears they crush or arouse where they land.
I am a poet.
But I’m not that poetic.
I am alive but not that alive.
Burn my body when I’m gone.