Plus, Enjoy our Last Reading with Angela Narciso Torres and Nikki Fragala Barnes
Incidentally, here is a poem by Tim for Cornelius.
EITHER WAY
for Cornelius Eady
Days when something grazes my shoulder.
Sunlight, sidewalk, the shadows sharp.
The sky holds a cold, unbreakable blue
that says Why look up here?
*
Doesn’t seem like so far back: couldn’t dance,
scared of girls, I heard Smokey sing
goin to a go-go with that soft crystal in his voice.
Pictures, music caught somewhere in my head—
I’m sick of memory:
my younger self, still inside,
wanting a way out of this
who I am now: this bizzy-all-the-time,
this—this itch middle of my back.
But who was that kid in the basement?—
all alone with The Miracles
moving his feet. The orange couch
covered in plastic, black marks
on the beige linoleum.
Something about solitude—if you can stand it—
makes you feel wise: the voice
in your head talking its way somewhere,
pressing you to believe
what it says
and, though you can’t remember when,
you grow into it
or you don’t: each thought breaks
into the next—keeps on, turns back.
Either way, you don’t ever
really under
stand. Just as you get used to the snow
shingling your hair, your idols, one
by one, begin to leave. Their old tunes
fill the coffee shops
and gently bob your head.
What is it
that your life
forgot to mention?
Hum a few bars you say.
Incidentally, here is a poem by Tim for Cornelius.
EITHER WAY
for Cornelius Eady
Days when something grazes my shoulder.
Sunlight, sidewalk, the shadows sharp.
The sky holds a cold, unbreakable blue
that says Why look up here?
*
Doesn’t seem like so far back: couldn’t dance,
scared of girls, I heard Smokey sing
goin to a go-go with that soft crystal in his voice.
Pictures, music caught somewhere in my head—
I’m sick of memory:
my younger self, still inside,
wanting a way out of this
who I am now: this bizzy-all-the-time,
this—this itch middle of my back.
*
But who was that kid in the basement?—
all alone with The Miracles
moving his feet. The orange couch
covered in plastic, black marks
on the beige linoleum.
*
Something about solitude—if you can stand it—
makes you feel wise: the voice
in your head talking its way somewhere,
pressing you to believe
what it says
and, though you can’t remember when,
you grow into it
or you don’t: each thought breaks
into the next—keeps on, turns back.
Either way, you don’t ever
really under
*
stand. Just as you get used to the snow
shingling your hair, your idols, one
by one, begin to leave. Their old tunes
fill the coffee shops
and gently bob your head.
What is it
*
that your life
forgot to mention?
Hum a few bars you say.