World winds
the road it leads.

Complex sounds
like a sonic.

Silversun Pickups
play in one ear,

and my hollow leg
awaits amputation.

The road is down
in an edge,

jagged
like water.

Sense
understands that.

So does
Sergeant Slaughter.

Rhyme play to me,
is free.

I’m the
farmers daughter.

Saw a wave,
looked the other way.

Maybe someday
after the sun

sounds like
a sol,

speaking like
a solar flare

or flattened
tire.

We rise, apex predators
in a spider farm.

Something like
a solo trip.

Poetry, the
ultimate freedom.

Something like a song
we sang in Spanish

rose like a cat
or a wall, or a caterwaul.

A broken tether board,
bored of being tethered,

bored of seeing something
like the devil

and Jesus
playing backgammon.

Checkerboards, Descendants
turn the channel.

They need love,
they are love.

So we surf
hospital floor boards

though we can
no longer walk.

And Randy exists
and Tim is a fisherman.

There is something
so effortless

in being
human.

It takes effort,
a full meal

and a full
gas tank.

But love is
in your backpack.

Next to me
in the hospital

is a man scared
with his wife

or lover saying it’s
going to get better.

I drink a coke,
listen to “America” remade.

Simon And Garfunkel.
Pretty sure it’s

First Aid Kit,
but it might not be.

Dolly died, but comforts
me in my eyes.

Even though I am alone,
I have clementine. And a muse.

And a wife who
means so much to me.

And a daughter
who means more.

And a dog
and a family.

And I haven’t
missed a thing.

Holly, you are
home with me.

I am a broken man
because that is humanity.

I am incomplete
because I get

what I need but
I don’t eat like you.

You are a forest,
and this is America.

And we are not
far from being done

with this poem
but there are

hours to sleep
and dream and create.

Beauty is tiring,
but ever tired.

 

Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly. His third book, Train of Thought 2: Almost Home is available now at the Oddball Book Store.