soul sludge


I see thirty people and they can all be reduced to
simple creases and kinks bouncing off each other straight into
Collision on my forehead, sinking into each other and in soul sludge
Becoming a pervasive forest green sickness spreading with the magnanimity
Of a romanticized little working class student harshly bent over desk
Faces come like vision, liquid imprints on this screen of sludge that
Is also words and lyrics beating meaning into the malleable reality of
What this is, what these people are, what bodies sitting over dining hall table
Bent, overeating, no real money just a play card with your face on it, a little
Identification bubble, you tread, you tread, you tread this water
Your shoes are getting sticky standing in your sludge and the shared slime
Gathering on the floor, of this muck dripping off all of us and preserving our movements
Like mammoths in tar, volcanic eruptions are just drips from sink that can’t be turned off
Leaks from a torn bottle, a little rip of plastic spilling water into ground, into thumb and hand
And clothes as you try to drink it, and throat soothed by hydration isn’t enough to
Burst this little conceptual creation, this little game, this little chat
That you can break and burst into and explode with and detonate, and all of it, and
I see thirty people and they can all be reduced to
Simple creases and kinks bouncing off each other straight into
Thirty people and they can all be reduced to
Collision on my forehead, sinking into each other and straight into
three people, and they can all be reduced to
One person held in your grasp, in your arms, put on your stage
Pirouetting with your forceful spin, a little dreidel top for this holiday would do good
A little family gathering for this holiday would do good
A little blue shot across country for this holiday would do good
A little photo of thirty-one people for this holiday would do good
A little cheers to a recognized beige from thirty-two glasses clinking for this holiday would do good
A little less of you and more of you and less of you for this holiday would do good
A little more walking and a little less than thirty-four minutes on keys for this holiday would do good
A little less rubbery bouncing and a little more alleys for this holiday would do good
A little performance with thirty-six people on stage for this holiday would do good
A little play performed by a traveling mutating troupe of thirty-seven for this holiday would do good
as long as you remember that,
from the audience, a little blonde girl with a dead sister, can see the cast
can hear their shouts and see their contortions, see that leg put over that shoulder
See that embrace and that joke and that actor acting and that actor performing
And she can see the show and if she understands it, the little blonde girl with a dead sister can say
“I see thirty people and they can all be reduced to
simple creases and kinks bouncing off each other straight into
Collision on my forehead, sinking into each other and in soul sludge,
diving and sinking straight into,
drowning straight into,
falling straight into,
spiraling straight into,
you,”
my blue
it’s you.

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