Suspension
The moment we hand-parted,
semi-hot sun with semi-glare,
halfway between wake-hope and dash-night, that
silence rules a graffiti-kingdom, I can’t deny
Syd Barrett who said: you’re nice to me like ice, but
it isn’t true, you’re nice to me like icing—hot&sweet&fragile,
But QUIET
quiet like (did you die, did you lie?) icing like ice, the WAIT,
the interminable fuckwit green-wall wait,
held over in a Hospital, wings of semi-tile like waiting for results, paused
breath held before the curb-step,
before stepping into sharp blue sky--
the ice-knot returns, sappy, at 2, at every 3, at every turn,
a disconnect dream, thoughts returning, concrete.
At 9 I swore I walked into the sky, light-footed
out of the yellow dirt drive, over the Chevy,
near tree-tops and telephone poles—this grand suspension
this shimmering Mojave heat—I just thought, sure.
This is possible.
And I did it.
I saw the steel-roofed carport, muddied
where dad threw trash.
No one believes you when you walk in the sky.
Why this 9-paned window on Route 66, below the tops of trees,
now cloudy tar-desert sky, a space you’ve entered in story,
never in breath, your absence;
rail and scream, rail running East to West,
rail suspended without steps to the sky.
No one believes you when you walk in the sky.
-Ren Adams, 2015
The moment we hand-parted,
semi-hot sun with semi-glare,
halfway between wake-hope and dash-night, that
silence rules a graffiti-kingdom, I can’t deny
Syd Barrett who said: you’re nice to me like ice, but
it isn’t true, you’re nice to me like icing—hot&sweet&fragile,
But QUIET
quiet like (did you die, did you lie?) icing like ice, the WAIT,
the interminable fuckwit green-wall wait,
held over in a Hospital, wings of semi-tile like waiting for results, paused
breath held before the curb-step,
before stepping into sharp blue sky--
the ice-knot returns, sappy, at 2, at every 3, at every turn,
a disconnect dream, thoughts returning, concrete.
At 9 I swore I walked into the sky, light-footed
out of the yellow dirt drive, over the Chevy,
near tree-tops and telephone poles—this grand suspension
this shimmering Mojave heat—I just thought, sure.
This is possible.
And I did it.
I saw the steel-roofed carport, muddied
where dad threw trash.
No one believes you when you walk in the sky.
Why this 9-paned window on Route 66, below the tops of trees,
now cloudy tar-desert sky, a space you’ve entered in story,
never in breath, your absence;
rail and scream, rail running East to West,
rail suspended without steps to the sky.
No one believes you when you walk in the sky.
-Ren Adams, 2015
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