by Marcus Weger
All for lethargy
All for the lethargic
Who knew you?
I never did,
Never dreamed so true
As you stealing some
When no one was looking.
And there you sit:
A still photo of the plodding sky
Framed and fixed as a window
Against my wall.
this is where I trail off…
More More More, something
I see you heaven, moon reflecting
silver glory from horizon to
see you dip and turn with the waves, crash
see you also crash into the eyes
of youth, of bright curling joyful-joyful tears
of sweat with honest work
which is not work
which is only This, which is only Alive
I have seen you fill a room with those same silver streaks
with mother child father sisters brother, Lit
illuminated, basking in presence
emancipated, secure in the rightness of place
innumerable, twined and twirling and linked to you
to you moon, you heaven
to the stars that line you horrid crown
to your inescapable unfathomable unattainable self
to the dots scattered randomly across the floor
to the bodies that lie randomly across the streets of time
in the clocks that tick-tock my life away
and my masters that bear down on me
in the thoughts that plague my unsettled mind
in all this
in all this, in all everything you are
but where am I?
standing outside this room
watching as this family and this body that I am
draws circles in the sand…
When you read this think:
I is not me
I is us
They'll say we've never
Loved, like this
But I say
They've forgotten the sun
Pressed firmly on one cheek
With a shutter
The prickling of flesh as the moon
No longer obscured
Appears in the waves
Beneath an eyelid
And how in one disastrous-brilliant
Breath, the two can meet,
And bring all heaven down upon,
Some Small Thing
It's a routine gesture,
exposing your-self before the off white ceramic
slide. You sigh or mimic ritual to appease the
modesty gods and bring forth the steady state, but
as the stars align you feel a kink
in the order of the urinal universe;
an ides-of-March deviation in the tranquil
humid atmosphere. There is a sudden warmth
about the furthermost joint of the digitus secundus.
Looking down with an awe reserved for use in conjunction
with the word child-like, you see a stream divided - the chaos of discord.
a Sin against the self. And though you have heard reports documenting
sterility, one could drink it, in fact, they say, you calibrate a more
normal course instantly. The eyes go up to vouch for the secret sneers
the back will receive. However, finding no one
the business becomes harried in a corporate sense.
A shake…Two… terre perdue.
You scurry out the door.
What's the harm,
Hell, you can
Marcus Lake Weger was born in Texas in 1980. He current occupations is Listening to Love Stories. He resides in Tallahassee, Florida.