| |
|
|
|
|
| |
Formula Fiction
This is where the "fuck yous" lead
I am your spawn
I bitch
Bounce
Boomerang home
ever the femme brutalé who never learns.
But I would be too smart to watch this
Avert my time from falling on a car-crashed studded script,
Avoid our lack of driving story.
I know there's no character development forthcoming
No chance to have an existentialist crisis
No time for plot prescribed change.
Yet I watch amazed- this cast- these resources- surely they'll
pull it off
Then the credits roll.
and there's just the memory of seeking your hand
lanolin, scented, warm,
and an afternoon of summer rain and soup's
mushy noodles. we skidded in our socks
over the worn kitchen floor.
and the days we were alone
driving madly through states
in your sensible four-door sedan spritzed with "new car" smell
my legs tense avoiding the tv and half unpacked
and packed again boxes.
You always had a map
You could not reconcile
sliding over the Armoralled dash.
I still think there is something missing
a phantom limb or other sense of place
that keeps you driving still
determined, then frantic.
Your map a crumpled weapon against
Your smooth palm.
Today we lost our way again
we resort to our lives, such formula fictions
chasing transparent resolution
chasing nickel-plated hope.
|
|
|
|
|
|
