warm brass breath
rising on summer evening…
Listen
trombones
jab orange javelins
into the air…
The neighbors
may think
I’m a weirdo,
and maybe I am…
The apocalypse
may be inevitable….
Hold back the tide,
keep voice steady,
but not monotonous,
inflect appropriately…
I stopped short and looked at him. “I took a break…
I should go to bed.
My music carves a pocket
in the still, dark
overalls of the house….
it sprawls across the dark sky
like electricity that forgot
where it was going…
One corn stalk whispers to its neighbor, “Do you ever feel like we’re being watched?”
“Shh,” hisses the neighbor. “I’m listening — if I hear it again, I’ll be able to decide if that was a child’s footsteps or a ghost.”
They incline their ears toward the possible source, but the wind carries in the wrong direction to confirm….
If you listen only
to what I say out loud,
I’m having a different
existential crisis
than the one in my head…