Something so sad about a rainbow
formed in a parking lot,
and yet, something so vibrantly true,
no wonder the seagulls get lost here
and bicker over the French fries
thrown out of car windows.
In Portland they’ll put a pentagram on your pizza pie,
fill your head with black metal noise,
Pepperoni like the Ace of Spades,
get lost in a book store among the aisles of the new and used
girls with purple hair and nose rings.
Some mountains don’t need to be climbed,
they just stand defiantly in the distance
and ask for your silence.
The red light of sunrise
shines through the gap in the shade
opening a crack of fire in the world,
like an escape route choked with dust motes
in the rubble of a collapsed cave
that only a hand can fit through.
Every tap of these typewriter keys
a transmission, across sonic highways,
tethering my heart to this
ambivalent, terror-filled world.
And yes, sometimes I text myself,
just to see if I answer.
I am not a robot, I say to the robot,
before entering I check the box,
I see the yellow taxi cabs,
the bridges, the bodies of water
that prove my humanity
like they say a pulse
proves you’re alive.
Life is a transmission on radio waves
and a mind is like an antique stereo
that sizzles with static until the right frequency
is found, dialed in, and reality pours in
through the speakers of our senses,
washing us in the sound of experience.
Between work and sleep
and two hours commuting
there’s just the waiting to feel alive again,
all this time not my own
these days circling tile in an empty warehouse
like a shark that eats air or boredom,
sustenance a drained whiskey bottle.
The wilderness calls me brother,
the wild calls me son,
a river like my aorta filled with wonder
and my lust like a bear
with a salmon caught in its teeth.
I’m home here among the trees
and ambience of soft light
as if it is my own body