Graffiti under the bridge says,
“Life will pull you apart like mozzarella strips if you let it.
And you should let it.”
Your reflection in the mirror says,
“We were friends once, long ago.
Let’s be friends again.”
A fungus angel dies in a forest at dusk
while coal cranes coo a lullaby.
A genius dies in a nursing home
without ever once being seen or noticed.
We are tossed like leaves in a hurricane of tenuous agreements
(form ineffable, source ineffable,
nature ineffable, outcome ineffable),
and we worry what some Cathy Whatevernut thinks of us.
We stand on the precipice of a plunge into chaos
(form unknown, source unknown,
nature unknown, outcome unknown),
and we argue about Republicans with strangers.
I once met a dead man in Barcelona
who has been with me ever since.
I showed him my hypochondria
and my disdain for my body
and the scars that cruel men have rent in my flesh,
and I said,
“Well? What can you do with this?”
He turned me around on the balcony and showed me the universe.
“This is medicine,” he said.
And even now the aches still return,
and tears flow like melting glaciers
and I shatter as easily as eggshells in a blender.
But now I am upheld by the same might which swirls the galaxies,
and I know I can never truly fall.
thunderous majesty of being.
cold air in my nostrils.
shameful errors of the past.
emaciated bodies of Yemeni children.
whale corpses choked full of plastic.
teenage soldiers inflicting harm out of boredom.
belched-up delusions of ancient grandfathers.
flocks of featherbeasts.
rays of starlight.
Pull me apart like mozzarella strips,
and let only the real remain.