by Chris Barton
the leaves still fall on the sidewalk in November
a cat still doesn’t know what a four year term is
strawberry coconut yoghurt still tastes good in the afternoon
my mom will still teach 5th graders about the emancipation proclamation
i still don’t comprehend the desire to shoot and skin a large moose
by myself in the woods
the middle to the end of your twenties seems like the closest, widest,
and deepest your capacity to be able to understand another human life is
on a multitude of levels, simultaneously, from different emotional
and temporal perspectives
and this syncretism is a vast excitement that is inherently satisfying
and alienating, because of its size and sensation of listlessness
and inability to affirm
being upset with the results of an election that you voluntarily participated in
seems like an issue of agency or choice
and a feeling of unchangeableness
or a lack of validation of agency or choice
caused by the absence of hope
and a knee-jerk response to orientate yourself
bleakly instead of earnestly toward the future
which is the comprisement of a series of rotations of a large rock
on an axis inside of a vastness that is unquantifiably larger
and denser than the perceivable vastness
of comprehension of your mid to late twenties
which certain people might disagree with
and this seems ultimately ok
because we all could mutually benefit
from being more tolerant
and addicted to trying
in my opinion
11/9/2016
it felt good to type this
Chris Barton received a BA in creative writing from the University of Tennessee, Knoxville. His poetry and fiction has appeared most recently in Funhouse & Dum Dum Zine. His mother is a 5th grade school teacher. Thank you for reading.
