It’s all been Russian roulette and the game
was rigged from the start. So,
you dear and distant god, what am I to
make of these small moments between
the hammer and the head?
Allow me this thought:
The clouds that are expelled from me
into winter’s dusk no longer take the form
of myth or fancy as they are painted
against a dying sun. They are cotton candy
caricatures of a man in the act of
I believe perhaps all of this has been a walk
down Saigon Road, and I’m now coming to sit calmly
without movement or sound at this intersection
The world I have seen is a nuclei, and
I am an electron in sporadic oscillation all around it.
I may leave at any given moment to bring
the clouds of another world to wholeness
or part from them to expose them to the
ultra violence of ultraviolet light.
Because I no longer know what I’m really staying for.
To witness war or the loss of love?
To watch children absorbed into the earth
or for them to wander off from innocence
into the people they will become?
At this point I no longer truly think of ends,
just the momentum of the moment.
I’ll one day have a grave like a laceration
upon the flesh of the earth,
and you’ll all pour me in like salt.
But that is a moment with no meaning for me.
But in existence,
where misery takes up residence in my bed
so often I’ve taken to calling her “baby”,
I am an entity and an element.
In existence, I have lost more than I have
ever received; and carry more demons
than I do pores of my skin.
Nothing out there cares if I got my druthers,
but I’ll let you know:
If you were to force me to live this innumerable times,
I’d sink these jagged teeth into life
all over again.
[Nathan McCool is actually so cool, I can’t stand it. You can find the haint, dusk, and sizzling of his concrete snares on Instagram, or at his blog, Mist of Melancholia.]