There is no good way to say this:
The day we met, everyone else disappeared.
The concert hall stood empty around us,
your coat’s red, the only color in the darkness,
drew near. Now I walk streets and see no one,
order my food from the dead who have replaced
the living, drive empty roads out to the mountains
and back. The radio plays static, and when I listen in,
the fluctuations sound like transmissions from some orbiting vessel.
I live alone. Do you believe in alien abductions?
Last week a group of scientists said they were close
to harnessing nuclear fusion, that among other things
this could send a man to Mars in about a month.
I would go to Mars if I had the chance, become a Martian,
understand why one might abduct a whole population
leaving only you and me, some sort of game or entertainment--
look at this one, it’s in LOVE. watch what it will do now.
but of course this wouldn’t be spoken; transmitted, more like.
I imagine Mars wouldn’t be much different from the past few days
since we parted, smiling for the night. In the mornings I hear all the alarms
going off with no one to shut them up. Their batteries die
eventually, or they get bored of themselves.
I live near the abandoned hospital. The ash gray of death,
odor of decomposition, gone--all gone. Sir Gaunt Skin smokes in view no longer.
Instead the whole place smells like rain, hums the same way. I need nothing more
than to tell you this. Unwritten stories have beginnings, but no end--
I dig for fireworks in the garage, set them off from the window
in the absence of holiday or patience, set the sky to light,
smoke trails leading down to where you find me, your voice
like a knock on the door beneath which you lie on the carpet
expecting no one for hours, or days, to need you. Your voice
like the last living thing on Earth, like a hymn to the sky to bring
all the bodies back, their lives too, and it listens--the world
reconnects to some machinery, the night comes on thick with clouds
and the town bustles beneath them in heat, fires emblazon the streets
with dance and shouting, as if everyone had been asleep and awoke entirely
at the same time, with stories of their visions they need to sing
and others they’d kill to hear, and I live alone no longer.
We climb to the roof, watch the kids kicking over the mailbox,
watch trash strewn across the street, and I wonder how old I’ve grown,
but your coat smells like warm coins, the buttons maybe, and I remember youth.
And you tell me, no, it isn’t coins that smell but the reaction with our skin
and the difference here is touch, that the iron in blood can have the same smell
when it surfaces. A week ago I would have tried it, and here we sit
with no inclination for pain or it’s ignorance, with no questioning of the fact
of it all, with nothing but certainty that the shingles that hold us up are tilted towards
the sunrise on purpose, knowing that we most resemble the whole of our lives
late at night when we want nothing more than to watch this visage, this change
in semantics, this enactment of immortality, this new day.
This weekend scientists found fossils in a meteor. This confirms extraterrestrial life
almost definitely exists. It was only algae or something but it lived elsewhere than here,
it opens up all the theories about life on earth stemming from a similar impact
carrying some living thing early on. We could be evolved from organisms that called another world
home. We are not alone. I know this as the canopy of trees we sit amongst grows wild with morning,
the city spread with life beneath us, birds, earth-squirrels, deer in the outskirts of houses,
glorious beetles, japanese and glinting with metallic greens, foxes digging between bushes--
they turn with the world and I turn, with nothing to say, to you and you understand silence,
that this is not in dullness, that I am not being dull but gesturing expectation, so you speak:
you say you want to live forever, like a lobster, which apparently, left to its own devices,
will never die of old age--if it escapes disease or predators, their DNA is self repairing
and they do not show signs of deterioration but only growth--they grow more fertile with time.
The clock radio came back to life at dawn, and from my bedroom below it blares: “as long as it’s talking with you,
talk of the weather will do.” It only plays love songs for hours, and we laugh about vandalism
that below us continues, a car passing by with that old Gerry Rafferty song, and here I am--untethered,
and not in the middle but somewhere in the margins, notes for some perfect existence,
a grace that forever escapes me, but that I follow down the roof and in through a window
lined with pollen and ancient dirt, still in awe of your existence, that this could exist in a world so familiar with
anticlimax, that pays $25 (USD) to kill and swallow a creature with eternity still to come to it,
that sings songs in developed tongues about imitations of you, and I sing of you, actually, here, today,
as best I can tell it, like a mirror under my breath, knowing that this could be it, a new life,
endless in each moment, drastic in each step, I know that on bad days, most of this country is underwhelming,
and I don’t even know your last name, but on good days like this I don’t need it, don’t need a phone
book or addresses or any other implement created to track people down because you are there, ahead
of me on the stairs, to the ground floor, to the front door, to the yard, to a car with it’s two sides opening
with the day, and I think about death, cold and lonely, reined in on the backs of UFOs, fear nothing
but this, these endings made up by science-fiction and now confirmed possible by science, this the only thing
I could ask to have removed from my life that goes and goes and goes. There is no good way to say this,
but one beautiful thing leads to another, you and me travelling all day into a starless night, hidden from view of telescopes or satellites, catapulting across the great plains between mountain ranges, I begin to forget everything that I cannot see, and the headlights illuminate one turn at a time. You know what happens next. The windows open, the wind comes in, I let out a howl to an invisible moon that this is it, grab your hand as it finds the final gear, launch towards whatever force is pulling at us like the charge before a lightning strike. You know what happens next.
Anatomy Anatomy
Whale Blue Review

Park that car
Drop that phone
Sleep on the floor
Dream about me
get this published.
Quote by Arthur Curry
it's official, vintage x metal is the saving grace of this board and/or the antichrist

e-married to
& alaskan_ninja