Yesterday I woke with the feeling that an important
note had been rolled up and stuffed inside one
of my hollowed-out bones.
Today, I talk to myself off & on, trying to speak
the message out of me until I realize
we’re all just ghost-in-speck and hiddle ‘n hide,
know what I mean? A fraction of a head
flowing on by itself.
As for tomorrow, I will go to soliloquy beneath the deity of
Thursday night and Friday morning, his preteen
fingertip pirouetting a string of birds like bubblegum.
I will try to come to terms with the fact that hallelujah
is a word made up of thousands of words, that someone
somewhere is lying in bed with rain pouring from the entire
landscape of their lover’s body—something more
than a kiss, more than fur and bone—a flash flood warning
inside a dream. I will try to prove we are halves
of a Venn diagram searching to collide and create
a different voice a different static a different intercom of blood.
And, for the day after tomorrow, I’ll try to wrestle every inflatable thing
into the same glass time capsule; and for the day after that, I will place
a dozen tiny mirrors around me and try to look into each one; and
for the next day, I’ll try to make up another reason, and I’ll try
the day after that, too, and try, and try.
When is it okay to conclude that where I’m going and where I’ve been
are tucked between my shoulder blades, burning into
a stunt of feathers? When is it okay to hold the hand
of your own debate until its wrist degrades into something weak, skinny?
There are never enough days to claim, before
or after. There is never enough time to solemnly
Logan is a Pushcart-nominated poet currently enrolled in the Graduate Writing Program at California College of the Arts. He mostly spends time on his blog, www.unknowmenclature.tumblr.