Nicholas Bon
It’s Never Just a Cacophony of Flowers
If America is beautiful, it must
be somewhere in the seams.
Here, let me give you an example:
I drive by the same collapsing cat
‘s body every day. The pressure
on my chest feels like the devil
‘s hand. I can’t even breathe anymore.
I’m just trying to understand
myself. I’m just trying to carve
my face out of a larger face.
My giant mask made of stone.
I wear my sleeves on my heart
to keep it safe from the awful
sun. I can’t even remember
what all I’ve forgotten. When
it rains, we can pretend
the water weighing down our clothes
has some kind of meaning—
that there’s a genuine reason
for all of these experiences.
Sometimes the morning is just
the sound of a record player
buried under the ice. The floor
opens up. The sky closes.
A pack of wolves are running
somewhere. Two people live
in a small room, but I don’t know
their names. I’m afraid
that one of them is me. I smash
a glass. I dig a trench. I set a fire.
I put a record on & it repeats. Later,
we’ll laugh about this. I think
about all the places where I wasn’t
born. Later, we’ll laugh about this.
Remember when we spilled
our drinks & we made an ocean?
We knew, even then, that we only
broke what we couldn’t replace,
that every plan we made was just
another step towards an exit.
It’s amazing how we always
seem to leave everything unfinished.
There’s nothing that can be done
that can’t be avoided. Another website
asks me to choose a password.
Another website asks me to enter
my email. Another website asks me
who I am. I drive to work in the dark
of 4:30 AM as George Thorogood sings
One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer.
The light on the streets looks like dirt
-y water. I feel like a pitcher feels
when the glasses are full & everyone
is laughing & enjoying how it all
continues on & on & on & on
in whatever cycle it’s stuck.
It’s all a series of locked grooves.
It’s all a series of locked grooves.
People enter & leave your life
in a way that feels so organic.
You don’t mourn the natural fade
of decay, of change. It’s the slow
progression of unanswered emails
& being too busy & I’m sorry.
Maybe when nothing is left,
there will finally be room.
Picture a sci-fi movie where two
characters occupy a small room.
One breathes oxygen while the other
survives on carbon dioxide.
They must sync their breathing
precisely in order to survive.
Nicholas Bon lives in Tallahassee and edits Epigraph Magazine. Their chapbook, My Circus Mouth, is forthcoming from Ghost City Press, and their recent poems can be found in Yes Poetry, (b)OINK, Dream Pop Journal, and elsewhere. They can be found online at nicholasbon.com or on twitter @1000000horses.