Photo by Scott Bulger Just one lucid event is all it takes. A snap of the fingers in the face, cars slam and the crash-n-crunch of metal; squeal of tires, shattering glass. Post traumatic stress disorder. She’s got Willem Defoe lips. Gunshots on the fourth of July, falling out of your first tree and landing on your back; what if you die? Tire swings on humid rainy summers…We never saw them land, never believed in anything beyond hot-dogs, bad day-time television, and the train whistling in the night as its metal wheels to track screeched in the silence. That orange Volkswagen bug always breaking down. Mother let me go, let me go please turn me loose, you’re feeling neurotic and I need to run, to scream, to fly. I did once when you weren’t looking, flew, at memaw’s one weekend, jumped onto a passing train car. I held the ladder, rode up the tracks, then let go and flew for just…
Snapshots. Back before the 6 million, before the light rail and gentrification – cleaning up means pushing out. Too many cars, an overgrown stream. We used to catch fireflies, put them in jars, and their squished guts caused our hands to glow. I don’t recall disappearing as they said, on the camp out. It’s 55 degrees in April; conspiracy theorists claim the government is tampering with the weather. Once there were just lights, and another time a ship which split in two and then returned as one. On a rooftop. We hear many stories, many sightings, matchbooks, untold. Estranged elderly wives on back porches in small towns brewing coffee. Medicated elementary teachers enduring the struggles of their students. Lonely and tattooed musicians – love will not fill the void. We stuff the holes with drugs, drinking, bodies, and babies. They hide beneath the folds of the universe, tucked away and tampering with our minds. Our gods. Our hours. Snack trays and art parties. Hacking into cell phones and interrupting internet. The new wave of cyber bullies of anonymous.
Snapshots. Back before the 6 million, before the light rail and gentrification – cleaning up means pushing out. Too many cars, an overgrown stream. We used to catch fireflies, put them in jars, and their squished guts caused our hands to glow. I don’t recall disappearing as they said, on the camp out. It’s 55 degrees in April; conspiracy theorists claim the government is tampering with the weather. Once there were just lights, and another time a ship which split in two and then returned as one. On a rooftop. We hear many stories, many sightings, matchbooks, untold. Estranged elderly wives on back porches in small towns brewing coffee. Medicated elementary teachers enduring the struggles of their students. Lonely and tattooed musicians – love will not fill the void. We stuff the holes with drugs, drinking, bodies, and babies. They hide beneath the folds of the universe, tucked away and tampering with our minds. Our gods. Our hours. Snack trays and art parties. Hacking into cell phones and interrupting internet. The new wave of cyber bullies of anonymous.
