Sunday, May 05, 2013

Michael Joseph Walsh


Weather permitting I fold myself

into you and other shapes.
I put my face

on the menu, muscles

over the fire, and it’s a good feeling

to know my life is
over your head.

Now you’re behind the lens

poking through

like a breathing
sometime crisis,

a note of pure threat

in reverse, and these are the facts

as you need them.
The birds clump up.

Your corners form

point by threatening point

and it gives me a terrible idea.
It calls for wading

into the sun,

eccentric see-sawing,

rubbing my teeth on screen.
It puts this huge question

right in front of us,

which is just what we’ve been

screaming about, the plunge,
the panting corridor

full to bursting with

gravity and

ruined conversation.
This way I can’t know the future

and won’t grow into it.

This way I let my feelings live

somewhere across town
and let a whole year go by.

They say the inanimate life is wild

and shiver-inducing.

Well it starts this afternoon.
A dream. A micro-economy

of cigarettes. 

I could have lived respectably,

making a big wax doll
and kissing it,

but now I don’t remember how.

It is the day after Christmas

inside the boiling hood of a car
and I am not to be unhappy.

I am come from the city

of the brain child.

I think I may be in love.

Michael Joseph Walsh currently lives in Fairfax, VA and is the poetry editor for Phoebe: A Journal of Literature and Art. His work is forthcoming in DIAGRAM, Fence, and PANK.