Pursuit of the New
A Poem
I still shave my legs and contemplate
nail polish, pierce my tongue, dream
of sports tattoos. Not common sports,
but the weird ones: polo, bike racing, candlepin
bowling. And now I fashion the next set of steps
out of pine and plaid carpets and wonder
where they ask I climb. It is enough
to open my eyelids and see the fire burning,
the forests on the horizon, spitting orange
into stars like Krakatoa. I reach deep
into my bag, and pull out hair, lipstick,
mint wrappers, car wash receipts.
I can’t look myself in the eye anymore.
The flames — they are just too bright for tired
irises. I stand here, in shallow water,
watch herring swirl between my hairy legs,
and wonder what happened to 20 years.
What happened to the fresh scent of blank
pages? Why do I linger on the tallest tree,
the wettest stone, the blackest pen
scribing a list of worthless regrets? All of this
is some form of weather noise. I am the rain
that sounds differently on dead leaves. I am
a spider that hangs unique on wet thread.
©️ Trapper Markelz 2024
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