CHIEFLY OF NOTHING
with thanks to LS/LK and CS
Calling on behalf of the darkness.
Can’t see a tattoo of any name
that isn't all of them. Doorknob full
of wine in Fayetteville, paper license plate.
Otherwise an indoor recess lifestyle, face full
of honest weather. Tripping on LSD accidentally
implanted in Wal-Mart steak. And the stars will turn
on their original collapse. Gush away to every
second the cosmic body and yours.
Can’t see an erbium that isn’t a crab
that isn’t a star that blew itself up
drawn on an overhang, protected
from the weather. Dale Jr. jacket
and waterproof Bible. Love you too,
man! Such a romp to see y’all,
can’t wait for December. Madly in love
accidentally like I’m sure every other jerk
this side of Big Skin Bayou. Tell you what,
I’ll be a reinvented mongoose tamer by December.
Calling on behalf of any tattoo that looks itself up,
explaining to my therapist the way the punk scene
works. Read by the distortion or pucker or warp
by the time it’s at rest in the center, the ending
slips through a self-generated crack, infested with
tunnels, form determined by what we’re a part of.
Poetry is the self-organized criticality of the cry.
Much breath awaits us both. Can’t see a 10 that isn’t
^ 10 that isn’t ^ 100 that isn’t every other cosmic
jerk and yours. But LS said in December: And there’s this
story of them all swimming in the sea and unwrapping
these hard boiled eggs from tin foil that someone’s
grandmother sent them off with and I love the image
of these people bobbing and flailing holding these lovingly
prepared simple white eggs against the sun,
and the foil and the salt.
Mike Young is the author of three books: Sprezzatura (2014, poems), Look! Look! Feathers (2010, stories), and We Are All Good If They Try Hard Enough (2010, poems). He publishes the free online/print literary magazine NOÖ Journal, runs Magic Helicopter Press, and lives online at http://mikeayoung.tumblr.com.