Yellow Sweater

A city made of almost broken bricks: 
sign yellow, 
and dingy pizza parlors.

There are less people walking on the streets, 
and more cracks in the pavement. 

The fluorescent yellow blares, 

My socks are socializing on the bedroom disco floor. 
It’s a party and we are dancing to chaos. 

I belted my song last night, 
tone deaf 
and rythamless.

Everything is screaming. 

I never went to church. 
Yet I write about God. 
(metaphorically) 

I don’t know why 
I still capitalize the G.

A tourist crying in a cathedral, 
I feel like an imposter  

My body is the sea. 

A single star shines through my window, 
a counterpoint to the writhing in my belly.  

With the sternness of a sculpted horse, 
I address the sky: 

Where we meet, 

I turn squares into circles. 
Because life can not be summarized by rational geometry.

I hammer clean angles, 
till their points are blunt enough
to cut silence. 

Poetry is wide and woolen. 

Revolution is a bathtub hobby of mine. 
I let my steam collect on the sticky green ceiling.

The water grows tepid, 
as I thunder through bloody thoughts. 

Gold half glimpsed through darkness,