29 Oct Nicholas Bon
I’m into the rejection of form, so take that
for what you will. Everything is written
in the same little letters, made from the same
reconfigured parts found in the same primordial
dream bucket. It all comes from some back
corner of time. Everything built on the same dirt
-y ground with the same dirty sticks. Everyone
lost in the same gross sugar fog. Doesn’t this sound
wonderful? We’re all trying to find our own space,
just trying to stay above the dirt, but I don’t really
know why. It’s probably way radder down there
anyway. Life’s just this big game of the jocks
vs. the truth. That’s the action of the world. I hate it,
but I want to absorb it all the same. Maybe
it’s my burden to carry. I keep a museum of sounds
in tiny box. Here’s the chirping of a mechanical bird.
Here’s the water running through the filthy streets.
Here’s the hum of a distant moon buzzing with light.
Here’s the ear drum solo. I could play these
for hours. I’m nothing if not a meticulous collector.
I’m trying to organize the mess. It’s me with my little
space I carve into indifference, me with the shadow
of what will eventually kill me. I don’t want to hear
about true love right now. I just want to drape myself
over this frozen pizza. I just want to collapse
like the pretty little star that I am.
Nicholas Bon lives in Georgia, where he edits Epigraph Magazine. You can find his recent poems in Spy Kids Review, Ghost City Review, the Bottlecap Press blog, and elsewhere. Visit him online at nicholasbon.com.