Like things that go bump in the dark
night these sounds are not quite
like what we think they are like
old bent and dusty books shelved
in empty house plant pots like books
of poems used to start tomato seeds
in hopeful spring before the last frost
shoves the soil over and worms awake.
Just so like I jump into the fray
with big plans for a newsletter
about things that are not
empty hotels atop sidewalks
full of homeless and fat cats
full of fur surrounded by mice.
On Instagram I post a skinny guitar
and instantly hit the delete button
and just as quickly bring it back
like an usher flicking the auditorium
lights on and off like a strobe light.
And so so on I flicker and go
with the flow now here now there
always nowhere in the act
of writing, of whirling στρόβος
twist about and birl about.
I go for a walk around the block
and step on a glob of adhesive
caulking and my shoe picks up
like a magnet all manner of muck.
Which like a bad sign awakens
me to be more cautious of where
I step like into a newsletter
and so so on I doodle here
while the sun comes
closer more and more near
like a full moon on this
the hottest night of summer.
The Coming of the Toads 