Fine Print

Fine Print

A stigmatized eyes, little slippery happiness-painted lies so that I might see better,
waving a feather daring oncoming traffic, breaking promises to myself,
reading an old letter letting me remember the memories,
the ones I haven’t yet surrendered

A semantical cemetery buried with all the things I try to dig up so that I can go back and
do them just a little bit better, exhuming heaps of glittering, worthless treasures,
and now it’s cold post-September, words’ ink staining the soft little pads
on the tips of my fingers

A big frozen chest filled with splintered ice chips and pressure,
and I have not forgotten the impracticality of pleasure,
nor how it smells and burns,
turns and yells at me,
“You never learn.”

My words talking to other words in one of my poems, paint talking to paint in a painting,
this life we had thought we had owned was merely an assassin in the shadows, waiting,
it burnt down leaving smoldering scaffolds in what once was your mother’s basement,
die like numbers with a cigarette handshake and a nice slice of the mustard,
a bandaged thumb-busted knife-burn to take home to the family so you
can show them what your life learned

Waiting patiently in the past like incubating gothic contagions, back beneath the silt,
lying very low until things stop changing the way they’re changing,
pointing my pen like a finger directing the hunters at heaven,
toward prey that has learned its lesson

Instead, time forgot to fly and landed on my eyelid and stayed there,
heavy and absolute

You can’t have the blues, you can just assume the mood.

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