Reduce reuse recycle
When we surrender this world back to the birds,
the birds won’t want it. Even the corpses
will be poisoned. Everything becomes a tadpole
trapped in a milk jug down by the creek bank.
Dirt-stained destiny. Water unfit to drink.
Jesus kept all his secrets to himself.
Everyone sees the same thing behind their eyes,
a milky darkness that swims past
the throat of a whale. Reach for the uvula
like a rope, a strand of light that clings to here.
Here is an illusion. There is no there, no when.
This end is narcissistic, and my last words
are a cliche, just another breath of fear
clenched like a fist around a collection
of scents, a crude bouquet of selfishness:
nutmeg soil palm, dog-breath seaside come,
honeysuckle shit cake, lilac lotion blood,
all is nothing and nothing is love,
the dust of bones ground into baby powder
into chalk into flour for biscuits at the mission.
Blue orb, the galaxy, the universe churns
like a recycling plant filled with teeth,
like a lottery machine that gives birth
to obsessions with infinity,
and there will never be a winner.
But if everything dreamed is a dying spark,
even then, it is not wasted,
for every fire gives off some kind of light,
until its smoke-filled darkness brings more air,
a place for the next fading ember to fall.
Jay Sizemore brought the high-five out of retirement. He still sings Ryan Adams songs in the shower. Sometimes, he massages his wife’s feet. His work has appeared online and in print with magazines such as Rattle, Prick of the Spindle, Revolution John, Arsenic Lobster, and Still: The Journal. He’s never won an award. Currently, he lives in Nashville, TN, home of the death of modern music. His chapbook Father Figures is available on Amazon.
