it’s hard to be sure of anything
i used to feel like i was a guest in this world
i was sure i’d get kicked out someday
some say that it’s all up for grabs, and that nothing is sacred
i’m sure that maple syrup is sacred, and eggs and bacon
and cold blue morning in the window
when i look into your face all of the knots in my chest melt
and all of my tangles go straight
this is the end, angel. they know not what they do. molten syrup drool welds them to the deck. gift wrap candy cane. the head doesn’t know its feet, anymore, and scorns them. i watched you get a jaw of steel and spit out wine. starlings and wind chimes clatter in time with armored cars doing burnouts in lockdown intersections with the yellow blinking stoplights. softlights. i saw st. george on your washing machine, and he looked like a white smear against blue. his spear had no point. don't get it twisted, as you say, take it serious. tall grass, mowing the lawn, sit-on-top in the hot summer with no shirt and sweetgrass hanging off your lower lip. cut the air above your head. thwack-thwack-thwack like cars slicing down the highway. suck it like a straw. hovering around looking for something to kill. st. george frustrated. every little thing we do seems warlike. we scratch the color off of the firmament with our fingernails. the guitar’s violence and drums like big railroad guns. i know that your wings will never blot out our sun. i don’t ever want to swallow you. i don’t ever want you to go away. the holy war is done over email. the village is rubbed out with lazy strokes. shut off the lights and hide under blankets. rattle along now. the suburbs are waiting for us.
