Poem #28: Flickerlight

I tried to make a movie about my life, and I found the tape blank. You tried and it was rainbows in the dark. We merged our empty screens together and found nothing.

I paint everything within sight with red and purple, one for each color of my rainbow at night. And green for when you flicker flicker flicker light.

I want to skip school and lie on the grass and gaze at the sun. I want to know it as my friend, not in the biblical sense, and to die in the shakespearian sense within someones arms under that same light. Or starlight. Natural light and not filaments that I make with my hands.

The car wouldn’t start and so I walked. The miles stretched out and the road wound and I found myself singing the only hymn I know, replacing the words with bits from my life, and in the clouds I traced a smile.

When you teach me physics and math, my head spins. When you tell me that light is a motion and stationary, I don’t believe. And when you tell me that sin is knowing these things, I cry late at night wondering why I was created then, if not to doubt everything.

A slideshow of my life plays. We’re swallowing fears in the garage and we’re dancing off pain in the driveway. Inside they talk about life.

The movie theater showed a film of my life and it flickered flickered flickered and went out, but not before producing a gorgeous scene out of your fantasies. When they looked back through the tape, there was nothing, and that moment, that scene, was never seen again except in the memories of all who were there.

Sometimes I flicker like a light, and I can’t seem to find myself. And those are the times I’m just reflecting someone else. And sometimes I flicker flicker flicker and just fade to night.


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More apologies. Something about prose poetry makes me happy right now. Old work, tho.