i.
does
bacon
still
sizzle?
it is 2016,
the year
2000
happening
again, a now-
recurring
nightmare
that growing up
has stolen
any chance
of waking
from.
ii.
somewhere
in the distance
of the dream
i have
a red &
a blue
colored
pencil,
shading in
states as they fall
either side
of the aisle.
iii.
i was told
i’d have a voice,
that i was
supposed
to wield
that voice
as promise
of antecedent amendments
but it
must be a bark
to them,
a thing worth
calling the landlord over
–noise disturbance–
something requiring
a lid.
iv.
even
a cough
comes back
at me.
the map
becomes red.
then very
red.
then too
red.
i don’t
stay up for the end.
it’s all the end
for some of us.
i cannot
look
at what
comes off in band-aids
anymore. his color
is not my color.
v.
his heart
doesn’t
pump
water from the well.
his is the dusty
cistern
my brother
will stumble
on, fall down,
twist his ankle in.
vi.
then he’ll tell
my brother,
“walk across
the desert,
one foot
ought to be enough.”
of course
they don’t
build a wall.
it was always a mirage
in evaporating
oasis.
it doesn’t mean
we don’t falter,
little more than
pole jumpers
leaping from
sand.
Michael Prihoda lives in central Indiana. He is the founding editor of After the Pause, an experimental literary magazine and small press.