substack
(p.s. drag me!!!!!)
Living in Parentheses
angelic breakdowns from two-story
terraces: the break and fury of something
half-born, something half-felt, an entire
colossal being splayed out on your
backyard. who’s to say that we’re
not living in parentheses, that this
fallen saint isn’t actually doused
in universe-dust and early organism.
the tube man outside the car dealership
is air-dancing, buoyant, free—the inflatable
organs inside his papery skin jittery
and alive, properly moving to whatever
pop ballad is blaring from the car radio.
we took a tally of what fell from the sky
today: some nuts and bolts, candy wrappers,
snake skin, and this. next to your bike
by the pavement, sprinkler whirring
wet onto its silky skin—a centaur,
a monops, no, an Unclassified One,
guts and intestinal fluid seeping toward
your front porch. today we witnessed
something so dead it has become other.
what if we enshrined it in plaster, posted
it up next to the living room fireplace
like a stuffed deer head, but greater?
or maybe we could sew it back together,
return it to glory, and then perhaps
station it next to the american flag
at your mailbox, fill its body with air
through a vacuum that we seal to its belly,
and let it fly once again, like a tube man,
our very own personal saint, one that ebbs
and flows to our whims and adheres
to our personal music choices, one
that dances with ferocity, its skin
slipping off with each sway, telling
everyone on the block that we’ve found
the answer to all of our questions.
terraces: the break and fury of something
half-born, something half-felt, an entire
colossal being splayed out on your
backyard. who’s to say that we’re
not living in parentheses, that this
fallen saint isn’t actually doused
in universe-dust and early organism.
the tube man outside the car dealership
is air-dancing, buoyant, free—the inflatable
organs inside his papery skin jittery
and alive, properly moving to whatever
pop ballad is blaring from the car radio.
we took a tally of what fell from the sky
today: some nuts and bolts, candy wrappers,
snake skin, and this. next to your bike
by the pavement, sprinkler whirring
wet onto its silky skin—a centaur,
a monops, no, an Unclassified One,
guts and intestinal fluid seeping toward
your front porch. today we witnessed
something so dead it has become other.
what if we enshrined it in plaster, posted
it up next to the living room fireplace
like a stuffed deer head, but greater?
or maybe we could sew it back together,
return it to glory, and then perhaps
station it next to the american flag
at your mailbox, fill its body with air
through a vacuum that we seal to its belly,
and let it fly once again, like a tube man,
our very own personal saint, one that ebbs
and flows to our whims and adheres
to our personal music choices, one
that dances with ferocity, its skin
slipping off with each sway, telling
everyone on the block that we’ve found
the answer to all of our questions.