Thunder is the sound of the world recovering from void,
of absence being filled with whatever is around.
Pretty much always air, yep.
and how much do you see yep in poetry?
does that make it advanced guard,
or is it literal translations of french?
thunder is a great bone-deep wail of despair,
the bright burned found suddenly absent,
heard miles and miles and miles away.
this poem is not bright,
it’s pretty content in mediocrity,
makes enough for the gettin’ by,
goes home to dinners alone,
and a single bed.
has for years.
thunder is a yawp to do Whitman proud.
and I look about eight inches to the left of her shoulder,
because I get it, we get it, the world gets it, the universe gets it, the mice scurrying along their exercise wheels in the petshop down the street get it, the late Buddhist monk with that great smile that everyone loves having chotskies of got it better than most, and believe me, I get it,
you’re tired.
you’re weary ‘n done ‘n right at the end of it, ’bout ready to give up, had it up to here [“indeterminate gesture at approximately neck height, though why gestlinguists can never agree, because the logical understanding is that “having it up to here” is not in any way especially dangerous, or even inconvenient, like really, most of your world is experienced through the sensory organs contained within this meat-melon we call a head, so wouldn’t you want to have it there just to be sure that you’ve had the full experience of whatever experience, otherwise, how would you ever know that you’re “done” with it?“ *Fisher and Davidson et al.]
you’re tired.
and I get it, I do, work and school, it’s hard,
but since I’m working a double,
spent my day off working in a scene-shop for eight hours,
and you’ve been here all of an hour at this point,
I can’t look at you, but eight inches to the left of your shoulder,
and fuck you.
It’s customer service, smile, take the money,
and r u n
don’t ever look back,
never look back,
pillars of salt mark the progress of those who did.
“quote attributed to no one” –Someone you know very well.
I tutored the seventeen year old who trained me tonight,
she was learning the quadrants of a graph in her trig class.
I walked in to buy a soda,
and she looked so confused,
so I sat down,
and it just happened.
old roads and paved footsteps.
thunder is the crack of atmosphere breaking the sound barrier as it rushes to fill the void that an inconceivably hot [“science has a pretty clear conception of it, thank you very much” *Fisher and Davidson et al.] stream of plasma torched nanoseconds before.
It is wrenching absence felt as much as heard.
Moses took his oaken hands from his pipe and he said to me:
“I ain’t much for commandments anymore, ‘n I ain’t layin’ down no laws, but I reckon it’s best to live with a smile ‘n a deep love of self. There don’t have to be vanity in it, ‘n you ain’t ever gonna know someone else that intimate. ’cause it don’t matter who you are, the world screams when lightnin’ leaves, ‘n we call it thunder, ‘n every livin’ thing feels it right, right here.”
[“Damn.” *Fisher and Davidson et al.]
