Fresh from school

On a day when the wallpaper shone
preferable tones of uniform blue
green and the hottest white
I was walking

Even though the natives of this town might agree
that this alone should inject a fluid sense of serenity within me
time was rupturing

and the most outstanding feeling
was not unlike when you are going about your day
and coincidentally you approach an acquaintance

A light of recognition grows upon their face
which you attempt to imitate
they begin to wave a little
kindling affection

You realize they were looking
through you at the man
now brushing past your shoulder

You recoil from your peak
just before plummeting
to the rise of the sidewalk crack
your collected shell disassembles
entropic seabirds startle

Pausing at the overpass
I fish a pebble from my shoe

I throw rocks from above
a sign that illustrates such
(except it should look accidental)
beside the highway
buses substitute ladders and sometimes hoses
incandescent eyes follow
crates of chickens buckled in truckloads
where a body a vehicle

Feathers and fires fan
stretchers and cameras summoned
bodies shudder
Help is on the way

In my periphery an officer’s shadow interrupts the scene
He firmly grabs my shoulder lulling
It is not tomorrow yet
today I notice all the houses
built of brick.

Published by Lia Yaranon Hall

My name is Lalla. I was a 14th century poet in Kashmir and worshipped Lord Siva. I died and fell from an evergreen tree in the Pacific Northwest (47° 36? 36? N, 122° 19? 48? W). My Lolo found me in an ivy patch. I spent most of my formative years on the coast of the South China Sea spearing fish until I became a "vegetarian" (but we didn't call ourselves that in those days). Shortly after vowing ahimsa, I moved to New York, unironically, under the guise of "poet" so that I could perform aerial stunts and acrobatics for an underground circus called the.

Leave a comment