Bad Ideas. Michael V. Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ ears are readied eyes,

      sift animal sounds from human,

      some differences of intent.

      The dark will always see better.

      As though it hides our lovers

      like the dead, dead before we met,

      the night teaches us to miss

      what we never had.

      Across Lost Lagoon, the apartment

      complexes rise, pixelated

      a horizon lonelier than childhood.

      If we’d been children together, perhaps

      we could have saved each other.

      When they lift from the shadows of trees

      what do your palms reach for?

      Have you noticed your fingertips,

      bark peppering the skin? I could lick them

      clean as silence if they rested here

      and here awhile.

      Prayer for Humility

      Here is my father’s leg

      in the incinerator, freed

      from the routine of glass

      sharps, his poor sad dick

      cathetered when Carmen,

      the Phillipina nurse without

      a wedding ring, arrives

      for wound care.

      Prayer for Optimism

      my

      nails mooned

      with filth the

      last three men salting

      my breath I walk further

      the woods dark & owning a

      power I don’t trust the alchemical dark

      transforms us men young handsome as dreams scrubbed

      clean by moonlight we are sick with some kind

      of optimism every man potential nails mooned with filth four

      men salting my breath I walk further the dark woods owning

      Prayer for Gender

      A teacher instructs the students

      to draw their future selves.

      One child draws the outline of a body

      he is not going to be.

      Watch how easily his hand transforms

      the page. A dress where there was no dress.

      Heels where none had been before.

      He senses the future is something more

      than black ink, white paper.

      He draws another line, marking time.

      Dreams of Friends and Family

      I Dream of Good Management

      I’m emceeing a concert inside

      a 24-hour supermarket. Children are

      crushing potato chips into their mouths

      as I announce the throat-singers. In aisle 15

      a boy restacks small red potatoes.

      I have to include grapes in my credits.

      My superior is standing beside me

      hissing into my ear what I should say next.

      In annoyance and fear, I hold tight

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