Blisters

Cut out on my feet –
cigarette burn rounds–
from city streets
that used to greet me
with imitation fireflies
and flights of fancy –
dizzying and glorious.
Now cracking and porous
my heels no longer
enough to support
–me –

Lo, lost, in this city
I knew –
So well –
It’s a hell

from the second you left
familiar became terror
and all I could want
is to escape –
walk away searing
in the heat –
I burn my feet
on the streets
that used to love me.

Us, in significance

I see your brain as this galaxy,
he said to me.
Beautiful, complex,
I’ll never understand it.

I hear my alarm before it goes off
the sun hasn’t come up,
it’ll go down before I’m home.
It doesn’t revolve around you or me.

I’m no galaxy, no saviour.
I’m a wanderer like the rest.
My eyes are still red
from this morning and the next.

You’re pretentious, they said,
but I’m not pretending.
I know that I’m not
a galaxy or some king.

I’m a kid of postmodernism
whatever that means,
but so are you,
not that we had a choice.

Dancing in circles,
like everyone else.
So maybe we’re all galaxy together,
bunch of old star dust

and we haven’t stopped swirling
motes of dust, moving.
Stagnant we’ll lay
and we’ll suffocate.

But we don’t know where to go,
from here, let’s go
and keep the pendulum swinging
between Cézanne and Warhol.

It’s all the same to us,
because those posters hang
in the dentist’s office
on a screech-drill backdrop.

Move [in]significance, [in]difference,
choice maybe beautiful, complex,
maybe you’re the galaxy,
we’re the ones we don’t understand.