Lower Ground

Weekend wings like a Christmas Angel
at every angle and I look at all the city lights
below me down this hill here where I’m standing
and the wind is kicking up like I am falling.
Bookcases of wasted words on me
because the only thing I listen to
is music in my headphones I don’t care about.
The cracking plastic and cut open cords
reflect that out at all who see me
at the bus station where everything is busy, and
the tickets cost too much to make it anywhere.
I watch the fish scales fall against the knife
as an apparition prepares it right in front of me.
When the filet is complete he lays it down
over a ghostly fire, into a spectral pan, and
with just his hand he turns it over evenly.
I don’t remember how it tasted but I woke up
underwater looking upside down
at headlights I had driven to the bottom
of the ocean.
After getting my bearings I realize
I am really on the hill still,
and the storm out past the drive in
is slowly blocking out the screen,
but all the cars don’t leave
they stay there, with their headlights off,
and radios cranked louder than the thunder.
It had the makings of the longest
rainy day in history filling buckets
under ceiling gaps as if the heavens
drilled a hole into your living room.
I get myself to lower ground
where there isn’t anyone around,
and try to think about the next place
I can make it to, just walking,
and the street signs all are stolen
so I wing it and just pick a damn direction.

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