In Which I Remove My Eyes From the Sky that Looks Like Boiled Water, Above Downtown Grand Rapids Last Year Before a Hardcore Punk Show in the Attic of a Church

 

A wanted poster is a blood flyer. There’s

one tucked into every street. We walk

in a stranger sway along Jefferson Ave. & the

locals can tell we ain’t local. Bend eyes to bleach pallor

of sidewalk, roasted and cracked like teenage summer seclusion

finally thrust into sun. Words summon our eyes up, and the words

weren’t even meant for our ears but we can taste the stale spit of fear

salivating an unwanted swallow.

 

The swallow is the giving in or up or out. The swallow

is the casual stride to Vertigo Records where we know

we’re safe and all we hear is happy. The swallow

is the thump of a breakdown beginning or hip-hop

back beat holding its own. The swallow

is us finding that one punk record no one else would have

and no one else wanted. The swallow

is us designating purchase and departure.

 

Funny how we swallow more when we pass the churches

or the 24-hour diners. The swallow

is a sigh we can’t allow ourselves

until we out of downtown.