Where am I even going?

Hahaha.... ha... why

Five

(They drink the Corporate Kool-Aid like it's water. Like they're frat bros doing keg stands. Like they're dehydrated from ten years in the desert. They're kids who've never had sugar. They're drowning in it. It's oil exploding a hundred-feet high. It's Old Faithful. It's everything.)


(The studio staff are joking, right? Who throws it all away for this? Imagine a life doing something creative, haha! God, who would even consider--? What about stability? The housing market is such a mess--no one can buy a house on a dance teacher's salary. Everyone wants a house. Everyone wants a family. Everyone knows their place.)

(But--)

Six: Flat Tire

In spring, the roads groan
from bloodless nicks and cuts,
spiderwebbing chasms in asphalt
that bloom from every salt-and-tire abbrasion,
every molecule of water that drips between the aggregate
and in the weary freeze and thaw of winter
expands--
wounds boiling up to break the skin of man.

Seven

I thought I would be first;
the young and unattached are the easiest
to pick up and toss across state lines.
And I'm from somewhere else, anyway--
a branch of lime newly grafted to a lemon tree,
an applique only ironed on,
one wash away from peeling off.

I will be the last, in fact.
And now my graft is sticking, as bark grows over the once-raw stems.
Each person I meet here is an overlock stitch
binding me to the fabric of this place,
every ounce of clutter in my house
a weight to keep me close.
When the time comes,
my muscles may be too atrophied
to carry it all away.

Sonnet Two

Perspective curves each muscle in my arm,
foreshortening the deltoids, biceps, wrist.
My fingers spiral, pulling in a twist
that reaches ever upward, e'er forlorn.

They tighten on a rung; the ladder quakes.
My feet are glued somewhere I dare not look,
but move they must, no matter how I'm shook;
I flee a nightmare from which one ne'er wakes.

No harness keeps me from an endless fall,
no rope will save me as my arms grow tired.
I stare e'er upwards, as my mind requires,
and climb forever, caught by light's gold thrall.

Success, stability, and wealth above,
and we're all left to climb and fight and shove.

Eight

The ghost of the prairie is grass-green corn
transpirating us to humid hell
and assaulting our sinuses with battalions of pollen.
It's swampy soybeans and waving wheat,
though we're long past Oklahoma!

When I drive into the grey night,
a thousand red eyes blink at me in sync,
ghost and future both, up high.

Nine: Taxes

I fill out boxes and I get this feeling in my stomach--
you know the one--
where your hand twitches the second you've got something sharp
(a pen)
in your hand and you're looking at someone in front of you
(a form, the logo for TurboTax, my congressional rep's photograph)
who is just causing trouble for everyone for no good reason, like, come on! We've all got lives to live. So what if this is for the greater good
(the good of who? TaxAct?)
you're making trouble and you're just talking the poor customer service guy
(me. ME. I'm customer service here, okay?)
into a tizzy with all this circular argument
(see schedule 1. see schedule 2. see schedule 3. see form 8889. oh wait that doesn't apply--why did you even fill it out then? Oh, don't be stupid, just because it says to attach the form doesn't mean you have to)
that you really don't even have to do, you know? You could just explain what you want
(send me the nine-dollar bill, for the love of god)
instead of going through the whole song and dance of explaining why you need that thing, and here's the logic of how you came to that particular thing as the remedy for this problem you are having with the customer service
(me! I'm filling out your forms!)
and here's every single step in the process, like this is some kind of geometric proof. Except it isn't, because you keep introducing new things that weren't stated as facts at the beginning.
And I would really just like to hand you nine dollars in cash
and then stab my own eyes.

Ten: A Lullaby for Those Who Stay Up Too Late

Transcription under the cut. Hoping to have sheet music for the vocals on Friday! And then maybe a recording next week? Fingers crossed. Piano chords are mysterious. Might write a horn/trumpet countermelody if I find the time.

Spoiler

See the soft and silver dawn
just before the sun comes
red and gold and cobalt-bold.
Sit and yawn; your work's done.

Late to bed and late to rise
hardly makes you unwise.
Ignore such low and worldly woes.
Sleep is sweet, so close your eyes.

Night is long, your day prolonged.
The birds now sing their solemn song.
All space seems strange this time of day,
so leave your tasks; you'll be okay.

See the soft and silver light.
Rest your head, tucked in tight.
Sleep seems faint, but just you wait
the sunbeams bid you good night.

Twelve

Oh, Majestic Mountain of Tulle,
Great Basin of Cotton Scraps!
Forest of Royal Blue Satin
and Navy Netting overhead, embroidered with sequin constellations,
I beseech--
Nay! Beg!--
thee: will you not answer my great desire?

Please, Vast Foothills of Batting,
inspire me.
Do you not require the labor of hands to shear you to shape?
Do you not need the blood of my fingers to piece you together?
Do you not prefer to be made into the forms you were meant to have,
rather than sitting, unraveling,
in the cold empire of my living room?

Oh, Mysterious Pile of Polyester,
newly arrived from the mystical heaven,
Joann's,
maybe you will be the hero long-awaited?
Maybe you will be the kick to this callous king's keister?

Lullaby for Those Who Stay Up Too Late (vocals)

Please help me.

Sonnet Three

I'll build you a house somehow, my dear,
I'll pour the foundations myself.
We'll hire out wiring and piping--don't fear!--
but I'll sand, cut, and hang every shelf.

I'll build you a house someday, my love,
one spring when the weather is fair.
We'll peer through the uncovered trusses above
to stargaze till we finish our lair.

I'll build you a house somewhere, my heart,
surrounded by flowers and trees.
In summer, we'll fling all the doors wide apart
and taste every bloom on the breeze.

If only I'd courage to read you this poem,
but all I can hope is to build you a home.

Fourteen

Mid-April,
and winter wind washes over the apartment,
crashing against the old, wood siding
in an ocean-wave roar.
Fat snow flies by the window,
a million silver bullets
that pierce through the tangle of
spring-green leaves,
one last surge
in an endless war.