Last Sunday Night in the World by Rick Marlatt

There’s no debating
the ritualistic notion, for it,
life begins at birth.
For it, being carved & lifted
from the gut of circumstance
is no random occurrence
but the sign of godly introspection.
Suspended in the voice mail’s
exemption of purpose
your mouth was titling
a particular version of my impressions
back into lonely left-handed
wind currents at the foot
of five mountains floating
somewhere in the void of late thirties.
Inside the mountain
a voice is reciting childhoods.
Locusts are losing an edge
on their buzz & shedding
lives abruptly outgrown.
Tires scream for no reason.
Through the storied window I see
a small fire burn in the tree.
Fires are burning in the trees.
This is the last Sunday night
in the hazy world.
Each leaf I inspect is browned
with another season of what
have you been up to man,
lifelines indicate different
capsules of you & other ways
of saying if only I had
a poetry machine to put your words into,
if only the sun didn’t stain
with such profundity
if only we were sixteen again,
stealing haughty laughter
from your parents’ fridge
there’d be more sky to blaze
new diameters, there’d be
more time to scream green forevers,
there’d be more moments
to seal inside bottles
& watch explode blue clusters
at the finger of a trigger,
the inversion of an eyebrow,
the ignorance of speculation.
Dark matter is screaming
speculation against blue clusters.
So tell me you’re good.
Tell me you’re interested
in alternative forms of foolishness.
Tell me you can’t see the fires
from your garage window
where you mount a muffler
onto your desperation.
Tell me you’re cozy
in the nook of acceptance.
Funny, isn’t it, how glaring
halts a planetary wobble yet does
nothing for years for freckles.


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