(v2) On Finding Stairs to Nowhere in the Woods Behind Your House

[matsunosuperfan]

On Finding Stairs to Nowhere in the Woods
Behind Your House

Just in time, you are made to think
you might be getting somewhere, but a river
funneling the same chromatic fish back
to the puddle where it multiplied
is gravity, not progress.

My parents never looked at anyone
except each other, they would drive that bus
without regret through endless squares of nowhere
because Life’s too short or Hey, we've got the time.
So many cows we’d never meet,

hills stretched out like billboards,
the idea of vacation as a postcard
buried in my brother's swimsuit magazine
that made me scared of women. I didn’t want to die
without experiencing perfect breasts,

I knew my awful softness
not to want to die at all. The future looks the same today
as it looked to me then, which is to say: blurry.
It smirks back at me through the glass. It knows
something I don’t.

The past is running shirtless
through your wedding party flask
in hand, asking the MC if he knows where
to find a grand piano, touching all the bridesmaids
and embarrassing itself.

It always leaves a little less than what you need,
the reason addicts like you can’t help
coming back for more
and more
and more.

past versions:

On Finding Stairs to Nowhere in the Woods
Behind Your House

Mark would say that time was just a reflex notion
in the spine, a river funneling the same chromatic fish
back to the puddle where it learned to multiply

when he was still alive. My parents never looked at anyone
except each other, they would drive that bus without regret
through endless squares of nowhere because Life’s too short or,

alternately, Hey, we've got the time. So many cows
we’d never meet, hills stretched out like billboards, the idea
of vacation as a postcard buried in my brother's hidden swimsuit

magazine, its terrifying women: time had made them ageless
teeth immune to any stain. Before my sister gave birth to a child
who only talks in poems, none of us had any clue

how boring were our lives. The best of them all end
with someone bleeding and begin with This one time.
Time is running shirtless through your wedding party

flask in hand, asking the MC if he knows
where to find a grand piano, touching all the bridesmaids
and embarrassing himself. You'd hate him

if he wasn't always good for a convenient bump,
the baggie stashed reliably behind the hand machine.
Time always leaves a little less than what you need,

the reason addicts like you and your desperate heart
keep coming back for more.