Tag: poetry

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.

Hey, what do you think of this raincoat?

It looks really good! Does it keep the water out?

Yeah, I made it out of a plastic bag. Clever, right? Saves the environment too.

Biological Sciences Building, 11:00PM, 11/9/2023

sometimes we forget that people can be wistful. or creative. or proud. the conscience is plagued with disaster and sprinkled with the remnants of a dream. taking matters into our own hands. are our hands stained with oil, like a chef during rush hour? blood, like an actor during rehearsal? charcoal, like a miner or an artist or a disgruntled christmas elf? what are we to ourselves? what am i to you? i bellow into the wind and it bellows back a hail of frigid sleet. i wrap the plastic bag tighter around my shoulders and turn away.

It could be worse…

I open tomorrow.

See, it is worse!

Spencer’s, 6:00PM, 11/18/2023

walt whitman writes in leaves of grass that we should “do anything, but let it produce joy.” in the back of my mind the words bounce around my head and cloud my vision. time passes but it passes slowly, obliquely, like taking a picture of a spherical reflection and watching the sides of your mouth uncurl a frown (you press your cheek into mine against the chicago bean; i tremble).

the same hands that lock the iron grating will pry the jaws open the very next day. love is the addition — the summation — of everyday beauties; should we approach the negatives — the subtractions — with equal care? equal appreciation? there can be nothing good without something bad. what use is a sunny smile without the absence of a cloudy sorrow?

It doesn’t matter if you’re late or in a hurry. You never cross in front of a bus. Our brakes could fail or a car could pass and we still need you here tomorrow.

Fuller Road at Mitchell Field, 3:00PM, 11/20/2023

valiant optimism will always get you far, but not far enough. we are reduced to nothing more than ants, to figures, to statistics thrown on a powerpoint at the next faculty safety meeting. it’s the way we can quantify ourselves. and what good would that be? you wave to a driver at the cctc and the man next to you brushes past, oblivious. he is the chicken crossing the road, the one that got away. the road watches and crackles under our feet. perfection lost is persistence gained; vows, like eggs, are easily broken.