by dan raphael
“& yet downtown duluth minnesota had less snow this year than downtown houston texas.” -patrick mckinnon
cut off at the equator,
1% of 1% mathematically mistranslated and apportioned,
focusing the light to burn-blossom complexity from so much accumulated in a large confined space,
i roll out of bed and fall into a swimming pool with live fish
and a multi-salt stench without filters or discipline,
too many friends dropping by and zizzing through, iridescent puddles as calling cards,
how quick the wigs unfurl when spring rains chopped so fine you want to paint with them,
making a plaster glove hungry for more fingers, stick to the veins, avoid the tendon trap,
like we now make traffic signs from wood chips so meth heads wont sell them,
what years of flame retardant smoke will do to you,
textured disks shooting out from under my finger nails,
gravity disks pushing away everything but music.
9 in the afternoon, ½ way tween work & retribution,
my pants beginning to molt means the weekend
neath an unchanging sky we have 24 different words for gray,
we have punctuation to indicate the words are cynical or sung.
walking exposes you to the spectrum of hunger—from insect to budtip
to mammalian leg warmers whimpering with 98 degrees of satisfaction.
micro glaciers inside our brains measuring our life spans—
water clock, water boarding, vintage water w/ recommended serving temperature,
like dancing naked in summer rain then remembering im in beijing,
more towels than i can afford, $5 per flush,
if only we could synthesize an intoxicant from plastic, not just hallucinatory but skin tightening,
jumping into my mouth before i can say no
if it doesn’t storm in the next two days my pension fund goes bust.
tho im on the job more years than ive been alive
the forecasts warm and sunny, light traffic and free food