Chock-full of dim light,
pushed through evening
drips out a dejected, leaned
posture. I’m right here,
furry with consequence, coming
in the room that was to be for me
and out the fire escape,
climbing into a fire regular.
The one with the melting framework.
The one you’re two-stepping in.
You there, you in the blue blouse there,
chained to the rocking chair like a question.
My name is Traffic-Cone, my name
is Caution-Tape. I’ll call you Manhole Cover.
Lets play a little game I like to call
just the whole thing repeatedly.
Cue the crippled nostalgia,
bring on the flames, the endless hours
in your tiny radius, your lazy avarice.
Where are the beautiful women by the windows
screaming, Where are you Cat Call?
We are capsized ocean liners bumping into
each other over the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.
We are trying to communicate,
but what’s opposing secret agents sharing closet space, really?
Sometimes I say, I have just returned
from a talk with the creek, meaning
I have just returned from a talk with the creek.
Sometimes I just shimmer.
To build a burning building,
run to a field and windmill out.
To construct a bridge,
arch your back like this.
Tyler Smith lives and works in Somerville, MA. He plays bass for the bands Pistol Buckets and Small Fires.