a small light on the surface of your skin
to guide my eyes to the nest where
your heart rhythmically beats without purpose
& waits for his shift to end.
I think I am close. Just focus
on your routine, & let’s make this easy.
The routine is meant to be easy.
The truth is that you need & want easy.
Imagination’s siren is always routine,
& it guides every thought & instinctual itch
that will ever tempt you.
So, pay close attention to these words
(I have to confess, my grasp of the language is not strong):
Follow the light
as it traces that reverberating comet tail
on the backs of your eyelids
& s l o w l y disassembles into random marks
like stars or pinhole cameras
manufactured for compound eyes.
Beautiful trails, whirling dervishes
You are feeling very tired.
There is no reason to get lost
in the way the sun aches to swath those tall pines
in highlighter yellow & cartoon green.
You are very tired.
There is no reason to desire
to wrap your torso in the leafy flesh of strange trees.
Do you smell gasoline?
You should know that I am setting
your heart on fire & next is your tongue
& maybe those trees, if time allows.
You’re so tired.
Most of all, know that this will only hurt for a second.
Then, you can relax forever.
“Why I Stopped Looking”
When the living rooms on our block are lit in television
lightning, they come back.
They crawl up from below the foundation,
through the floor &
into our conversations.
They come back this way.
They always do.
All of them come back.
Covered in soil & dead skin,
their eyes open but unlooking,
left dark in the center.
Can you recall whether I held you down on the bed
or if your hands were tied?
Either way, you looked beautiful.
At sunset yesterday,
12 vultures sat waiting on our neighbor’s lawn
as I drove past.
I stopped to watch their patience,
but they said something in slow motion,
hissing dits and dahs.
- ..- .-. -. / .- .-. --- ..- -. -..
I wanted to understand their message.
I want to understand everything.
I never understand anything.
I never understand.
I always drive on.
Jason Dean Arnold recently completely his doctorate in education and works at the University of Florida. His poems have appeared in several online and print journals. Birds speak to him sometimes. They usually say nice things. More information can found at: temporarytranslation.com.
