At work sometimes I walk to a concrete fence under the burning sun, and I write prose poems on my phone.
1. Where does the dream end? The desolation is tangible. You can knead it through your fingers, make mountains. The mountains are hills of dust, that dissipate. Every other person has hair a color in the rainbow. Futures are dull knives, under which butter melts.
2. Clouds will not show. It’s an insult. I remember the rich clouds looming over the trees. The sky’s sterile and so bright that the planes glint. Standing still, was it worth it, the silence?
The sun’s stuck in the sky like a prop
Painted backstage at the high school
And hung too high to tell
It’s a puppet on strings
The swimming pool’s full of musical instruments, a yard sale. The concrete of the pool is all black inside as the banjoes, the guitars, and the pianos dangle their price tags, white cards on strings, expectedly, waiting to be carried out of the pit. After the sale they fill the pool again with black water, the bottom invisible. Swimming inside, you dip under and are lost forever, beneath eight feet of black, with only an eye of light gazing down at you, blinking as your arms reach up..