This Metal, This Rust, This Life / Jim Palmarini


       For AP, Bro, Bwax

Well, we are what we are
rusting or not
speeding spending and
enlivened by each other’s
stories in the goddam gapped
ridges our lives have worn
and built—who’s
breathing hard, who’s
hardly breathing, all that
news of this one or that one’s
Homeric trot and rot tale. What’s
the story? she said years back
ahead of the bell curve
and call, that sway ’n
dance backlog loose
on the realized and unintended
suitors who are us.

Take my hand—whaddya
got to lose? Time
isn’t on anyone’s side. Might’s
well keep in touch. Invention
is all we have and
I’m not interested in going
through this shit alone.

Oil on the metal.
Moon in the sky
Sunlight through the trees.
Something
in the water
for every fucking
one of us. This is all
so real I can hear it beating.
Now, who can see
in the dark—I’ll toss you
the keys to my own
personal comet, the drums
of my father, and
the only paintbrush
I never ruined
for that golden arrow. Decay
my ass. Get in the car—
we’re all going
for a ride and no metaphors
allowed. Rust never sleeps
you bet, so lock your door and
start pissing in the can. I know
I know—I ‘m going to pay
For this but I can’t stop myself.
What we talk about
is who we are. What we do
is what we know.
What I’ll remember
when I sleep is
you were there. Open up
the door—it’s me and
it’s raining and
you know what that means.



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