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.