Poetry - September 29

I was drunk and in love with you watching the secret service
Shoot birds out of the garden thinking how if it even ever ends
there will be a future around the corner trying to hold its shadow in.

I was driving in a sticky halflight when you laughed and said
“I will be your GPS through life” and the steering wheel started
to disappear, then the metal, and the windshield until it was us naked
on the black road testing out our symbols and flare guns.

I was pushing the wrong way through a crowd of faceless men in
Trenchcoats, fighting the attacks of their shining suitcases like wet
Birds. And you? Well you were hand in hand with one of them so
What is the use? I mean of buildings and roads and hands?

I was once watching the workers with the dirty smiles make
Us love toys in the deflated factory, foaming at the mouth
Remembering how calculated fucking really is at least.

I was at least sharp enough to be fascinating enough
Around the spies and the humble mechanics banking
On the world to run out of shoulders to cry on.

I was running wild putting post-it notes on everything
To state their immediate presence or their color;
Foreheads were the hardest. I lived inside out like a
Good kid and life unfurled wet and sort-of tempting.

I was sure that the madness would do me in but it
Took me in and now I can freefall at free will
And I show off my tricks at parties and feel relatively fine.

I even had the habit of drinking white wine in the
Shade of crooked trees in the perfect afternoons
We’ve all heard of but were too afraid to find.

I was forcing myself to sleep telling myself
With every limp sheep that barreled quietly
Through the room that I have done worse,
I have been worse. (I have been worse).

I was standing in the middle of the world offering myself
Like a bad kid, black blood and all, throwing my voice,
And pretty much shaking into the void waiting for it to
come back in melodic harmony or for you to eat me alive.

I was staging a death trap act full of longevity and
loaded questions about dropping out clean and unshelled

-waiting for the collapse of much smaller thingsendcap

Frederic Levesque is originally from Montreal, Canada but now lives in Atlanta, Georgie, god-knows-not-why. He’s been published in Stillpoint, Spork Press, Mandala Journal, The Stray Dog Almanac, Muse/A, Nately's and Deer Bear Wolf.

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