Tag: poetry

This is precipitation but up here you know it will be snow. It consistently does that, do you see the colors?

North Quad Dining Hall, 11:00AM, 11/19/2023

the spirals swirl across the screen. they are always moving, mutating, out of formation like a line of ants trekking down from the 44th degree parallel. what do they call it now? a new version? an update? nothing is as pervasive as the thought of change, even when the seasons changes every year. on the last sunny day people line the streets of the diag and smile wistfully. what a day! a day filled with weak sunshine, a goddess recovering from a cold — or perhaps about to succumb to one.

I see all the pictures of people posting the snow. They are just the out-of-state kids.

Pierpont Commons Basement, 3:00PM, 11/27/2023

in a different world, the sun shines every day of the year. further north it lies behind a wall of rain. the snow is soft, gentle — for now. the snakes lay their eggs; come back in january and fight off their young. when the earth crumbles the children will sleep soundly in their beds. when the sky falls the children will stick their tongues out and press angels into the rubble.

the day after the big game the clouds begin to spit. perhaps the heavens put money on the buckeyes?

It doesn’t matter, I’m always cold! Remember the first time we went fratting? I was freezing!

That was the first week of August!

Yeah, I know. I wore that sweatshirt because it was so cold!

Sigma Chi, 9:00PM, 11/29/2023

the night is a blanket in only the metaphorical sense. the early night is warmer than the early morning, as if the earth were a giant bowl that was heated in a cosmic microwave. clouds and oceans and fractured ozone fractals decorate the outer edges, cooling and warming at whim. the contents are scalding, in more ways than one. you look up the videos of the smooth, perfectly spherical aluminum foil balls. my skin pricks up in danger. one inch ahead, one press of a button, and the world turns black. but for whom?

Father and boy play catch with a football. The sister does a handstand and splits her legs to form a V. Father throws down the field, through the V, into the arms of the boy. Touchdown, Michigan! The mother and the aunt stand off to the side, cheering. Then they return back to conversation. A dog rolls around on the grass at their feet.

Palmer Field, 3:00PM, 11/23/2023

what can a camera do that a dictionary can’t? it paints by neuron, by light and shadow. pictures worth a thousand words elicit no response. speechlessness is an iron fist. an emotion takes over, hot and fervent and bubbling, and it trembles in my fingertips and slides down the back of my spine. this is what it means to live in this pinprick of reality: between pages of characters that build worlds behind the back of your eyes. between photobooks of tyranny, of sunshine, of delicious meals and happy families, of you, and only you.

How good dinner was yesterday! Nobody was on their screens, everybody was having fun playing…

Booksweet, 8:00PM, 11/22/2023

we are bonded beyond eternity to the screens that ru(i)n our lives. i wonder if they will have a place to sit in the future. let the phones eat, crows the mother. the child stacks a row of electronics around a tea party table. they feast on our information and suck the binary marrow out of our bones. airplane mode is on, but there are no more airplanes — they were hunted to extinction years ago. the smoking fuselage, wild with spice and oil and crispy metal skin, sits in the middle of the dinner table. father raises the knife. the world turns black.

This is going to be our last game! We’re graduating! Come here.

Michigan Stadium, 1:00PM, 11/25/2023

the campus hibernates for a week. the bus stations lie empty, perhaps in anticipation or fear. nobody wants to poke the sleeping dragon, wake the transient wolverine. a stadium roused to madness, doused with a frigid, fracturing, fractal wind. it crawls up your skin and burrows with infinitely thin claws. is every culture a mosaic, or is every mosaic a component of culture? will you find the pigskin stained on church windows or raised on the top of flagpoles? of course, the answer is yes.