and i ignored the muse inside
it was no muse of Jeremiah, nor of fire
so the heavens of invention become the greenhouse effect
summer's been the red wasp whipped around crazy horrorshow fast
by defeated fan blades rocking shameful
it has skittered on cottage cheese ceiling
and careened past over-my-head tugging frightened eyes on reins
summer's been a chaos of wasps stinging at the same skin
as epinephrine pens inject reverse allergic strawberries
natural sugar naturally killing the pubescent loves of past summer
but summer's also been injuries to the feet, left and right
and miles of gauzy itinerary hoofing it, the pavement,
glass needles worming out of muscular caves
and gossamer sores crusting asphalt scabs
it's been black and white Islam and the glimpse of true devils
it's been over 100 for forty days now
and the dust storm hints at tornado
summer's been an incomplete painting of the Condemnation of Naked Man
the coalesced reality that the bulging cells of being
have grown unregulated to cancer as a gift from God
and summer's been the question what if the savior had been aborted
with a wire clotheshanger and Marylou was living off my dollar in 3rd generation welfare tradition? well here's a question back, when summer's been dogs spending days inside whimper and cry can there ever be a balanced home?
summer's not speaking and is confused where is summer coming from and when will summer leave, no you can not redecorate on the family's dime summer we already cut cable this month and chrome, even with light public storage rust, is always vogue
the gravity will pull this out past the table edge of recollection and the new will mingle the old with no regulation estuary of fact and fiction breeding the summery fishes and creatures the romans would think fanciful and the greeks with aristotle in mind might even classify as air elementals soaring with the fates across the tempur-pedic pillow-top of lazy humanity
but what has summer in its grasp any longer it is unleashed on the fields of unleavened websites and flattens out emitting rebellion for future shootings and gun laws and constitutional violations that create legislative vortexes to turn the forefathers in their graves and sell the whole damn nation to the UN if you want to really know what to worry about
is summer caffeine giving up vegetarianism and the next baptism of the soul or is it the ache of lost swimming technique the trial by water of total recreation that kiss of sunlight or rape of evening wind on nipples rubbed raw by cotton shirts losing the milk of the wasted children on every pumping fist America, just losing the sweet milk for the babies because the fabrics are mixed with nylon for the spin cycle and not to shrink in the drier
or is summer not enough gas and intense loneliness in pastiche across oceans and generations and amtrak trips--
if the love of my life reads to here, let him know i am sorry for the lost mind i offer--
or is summer just summer and is it all just impending suicide from hand-me-down human will to live?
our clothes should not be summer and our wash should not be for bodily cleansing
the soul sponges sweet nectar that the mind cannot digest
halcyon is the eruption of spring and the backseat of the xterra
where last matter even really mattered
summer is the focal point and the spine of the Appalachians
summer is the yoke of spears
summer is the provincial suffering
summer is wasps, stinging at flat feet
at last moon of midsummer night dreams
at passages of transitory ghosts
at the haunting emotion that bends
the sunlight around its origin
beaded with sweat
of exertion or condensation.
Clayton Woolery is a seventeen year old child from the Ozark "mountains." He writes poetry because he can't commit to the length of prose. He is self-conscious about writing a biography and would rather just shamelessly promote his poetry collection.
