Friday, 22 April 2011


this is the poem in which i theorize about how
adrenaline is engineered. i document the sounds:

first the whirl, the avalanche of wheels
the distinctly metallic impression of
flexibilty, the not-quite creaking of
things that are doing exactly
what they are supposed to do.

and then the waterfall of shrieks.
the hush. and again, the sounds.

it is enough to dance around whatever
misconceptions i may have about balance,
about being "okay"
as in "keeping things out
of reach of consciousness"

so i look for distractions,
whatever little post-it notes
that may have a chance
to convince me:
it is not the same. it is not.
for instance

that boy is young enough
to have the nerve to panic
when he can't see his mother
in the crowd but too old
to reach for her hand when he can

and that one holds his girlfriend
around the waist and looks up
at the people around him
with one eyebrow slightly raised
but that one holds his girlfriend
around the back and looks at
the old gum stuck to the railings

and that girl is wearing black
and a shirt with the name of a band
that i figure is the kind of band
i should be more familiar with.
she shares a churro with her friend
and they talk about people
they know

and i figure it would be pretty cool
if i smiled and said something
about that band like how it's the kind
of band i should really be more
familiar with, or how  it's interesting
because i kind of roll the r's in churro,
not like you.

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