Eight Months Underground
i get my exercise of late by
going for a daily swim in a
pool of disappearances. to
forget your gift: communication.
be it in plain-speak; layman’s
terms. academic. or both.
seeing the light at the end
of a tunnel and comparing
that to near-death experiences.
like i said, i’m not dead.
holding on to hope after
the summer fog evaporates.
how many times must 2 x 2
x 2 equal dated, equal late,
equal no dates, start with an
infernal earthquake. go back
to jack. get out the frank, the
frankly giving of a damn. grab
the real man and exercise that
plan. hail fortitude. trade in
the house with its foundation
of fog that you were thrown
like a bowling ball down
from the bleeding edge of
our fair city’s steepest incline
to roll and all but dead into
a breezy summer fortress.
no more four more years
minus one, minus one,
minus one, minus one.
get back at zero by starting
to pile it on, this walking,
running, never digging
ever again. and then.
inhale more (recover)
denser oxygen, ex
the memory of the
shovel, then throw up
his godforsaken pitchfork.
rise from all fours until up
right. and now you’ve tipped
that dumb-ass cow of time.
