The cheap convention water bottles have imploded,
crumpled as though their planes are bowing from the inside to applause.
Spoons gallop and buck off their own dents
(this does, often, sound like an audience approving),
whisks skittish over the backsides of frying pans
fall laughing from balconies, are tossed back.
The children in pajamas (though it’s light out) or on shoulders
have their pots to scale,
those tiny saucepans you only ever melt butter in.
The wooden soup spoons splinter when the clambers come.
The dogs are scared shitless,
poor little guys.
Every beating thing rises in and out of time with its own clumsy strength
In the crevices between rhythm
Slogans are slotted and picked up and dropped
allowing welcome moments of impostering
where it sounds like I speak fluently
because I can barely hear my own voice as something alone.
I try to remember,
are one of those pictures
made of thousands of tiny dots arranged in illusive patterns
that come with clear instructions
to stand very still
and focus through what you see
then back away
with your eyes crossed and your hands up
until an image emerges:
worth being bullied by.
If you still see individual dots, you’re doing it wrong
designed somewhere between aphids and androids,
swarm the narrow piste
which joins fear to aggression
that tract of emotion where territorial is born.
Their canisters are the urethras of the law,
pissing pepper spray or smoke onto car tires or corner stores
hoping the traces will stick as discouragements
against the blocks they want for theirs.
But we don’t use our noses these nights
when we flow under the overpass
our noise becomes something solid
(as sudden cold water can seem)
tossing itself off the walls
rearing its rhino head
opening its rhino mouth around my ears,
a roaring, cascading beast
batting at the signs leaping up from broomsticks
that will go back
to sit in front halls till tomorrow, listening,
to see the coming and going of the good light,
through evenings full of thunder fighting thunder.