‘Simian’s Sad Song’ by Walker Storz

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History is over

 

I have a hard time
focusing, sometimes

 

Late summer rain no
longer means “late summer
rain,” because History is
over, History is
history

But as I was saying,
there was a late
summer rain building
towards what might
be a climax, but …

and there was an
orange light
shooting through the
puddles

I saw her standing
there, only five feet
from me

But that’s the thing
about distances

These days, distances
are all that
matters but they are
defined in multiple
arguments, or attributes
like a line of code

Distances are defined()
in a different way
now that the past
is dead
now that the future
stretches before my
lonely eyes like the
lit-up screens in a
BestBuy

Like the

best bargain in an
empty store full
of
nowhere people

 

Part 2

That was the year
that I couldn’t
sleep, and also couldn’t
die

Actually it was just
that I realized
I would never get
to attend my own
funeral, therefore
death seemed like
another
bad performance
in a
series
of attention-seeking
acts–draw a straight
line from me squirting
chocolate milk
out of the
sides of my
mouth in middle school
to this maudlin
finale

 

Also I was scared
as shit
I didn’t want to live
particularly, with this
dull throb, but
I also couldn’t
pull the
trigger

Hell, i was scared

enough shooting
at paper targets
Muzzle-flash and
force , demons
summoned singed
and air-rending

When you shoot,
the air is out of
place, the street
is in yr house, the
wheel is frozen
in midair–yr heart
is crystallized

That smell is like
the goddamned
Devil leaving
a tracer round
in a cig

 

Everyone ducked

 

And me, I had a
guide, he firmly
grabbed my hands,
guided my grip,
showed me where
and when to
pull

Everybody moved

 

 

 

4. (post-script)
I hate
you,
for not
having the
strength to
hold the rope–
or not
loving me
enough
You could have
at least
supported me
leaving this
world, you left
me
not-hanging

I welcome
the hate
you stir in
me, it’s like a
communion
Burn through
me again
and again
Clench and
unclench me,
leave me
holding the
broken rope,
staring into the
mirror, waiting
for a lover
who could
end me,
wading in the
white noise
of the edge
of my mind,
the liminal
space taunting
me like a
schoolyard
poet

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