A day in the heat, with those flies that bite,
I sit on a bench and try to build
A future out of thin air.
Lives never crash.
Cymbals wait. And plans always feel steady
Once they’re penciled in. But in the middle
Of my daybook scratchings, a thought. Conscious amid
Naive sisters, I bite
Down on fear of being unsteady
And piano builds
A buzzing prelude. Prepare to fall. Prepare to crash.
I know this: dreams die perfectly. The air
Starts a symphony. I air
Grievances to the wind. Walking the middle,
The mezzo won’t prevent a crash,
So maybe I should fuck-all. I bite
Back on the deviance building,
And play a softer song. Keep it cool. Steady
Feelings, I think, are not so steady
When the weeping weans off to airs
Of worry. Each day I build
My own orchestra tuned to middle
C, but dissonance rolls in and bites
beneath bellowing strings, crashing
The concerto before the coda. But if crashing
Is inevitable, why work for steady
Futures? ‘Cause dismembered days bite
Me in the ass! Those airy
Mornings switch on a bitch, I need the middle.
Or I turn to a forte so furious, I burn what I’ve built.
So when strings build
A massive crescendo, an infallible crash,
I rise from my seat, in the middle
Of the movement, and walk on steady
Feet towards the open air
Desperate for the wind’s cold bite.
The doors steadily shut and build
A bit of wall between me and sound. But it’ll come crashing
Down soon. I’m still falling through the middle of the air.