by Patrick Hughes
the snot settlements of the past
rearranged and carefully maintained for permanent residence
like a handkerchief planned to forever last
in two iotas
grizzly voters
will strut out of the wilderness
and hope to open up the trash
it’s safe still
everything wants their fill
their confusion shows us how
if we ran out of the woodwork
like brash voters
bears to locked latches
clutching anthems of the past tense
we’d be shot down and awakened
back of our story
and into farther away regions of our minds
so be young
some kind of night
at least in a windowless room so dark
it’s hard to really understand the light switch
we’d just make it one way for sleeping
one way for what must be called day
and call it day, day after day, we’d sleep into day
there’s a world outside
with a sun over head
beyond every congested area
beyond every dark and paved road
right on the borders where it looks like there’s room for no more stuff
there’s a world out there
and it’s not crammed in and rough
it’s social media’s meaning
when you look past how we get down on ourselves
and go out into our feelings
it’s a bird chirp’s construct
after your car alarm is shut up
it’s to hear clear just how those who aren’t here
will wake up to butterflies on their toes
it’s when we’re getting away
from our most easy to find ambitions, the rabid pink slips
and finally grab the pen, tip of our voice, upwardly hoist
because dreams have pictures
and it’s an energy, then a handshake, then a new found purpose rolling forward
i have ears so i can witness the march of gathering slow words
an idea so commonly perceived will one day breathe when we see the hue of colors we could emit into space