The Night's Rush
POETRY
09-12-02024
POETRY
09-12-02024
So you want the world to sing for you,
8 minutes before your shift?
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If dishwashing can’t be its song,
do you even have the ears?
The dishwasher steps with confidence,
veins snake his forearms,
like sidewinders climbing sand dunes,
he holds glassware rack level,
steady through the night’s rush.
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The young couple he passes,
feel the first date’s mood slipping,
the allure has muddled,
the auras are graying out,
but, goddammit, they tried!
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The tweaker with no shirt,
and two backpacks,
travels the back alley at a good clip,
keeping the strict schedule,
of the night’s rush.
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So you want the world to sing for you,
6 minutes before your shift?
-
If dishwashing can’t be its song,
do you even have the ears?
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A song sings in time,
and beyond it,
arching out and back to now,
like a bullet fired straight up,
like solar flares,
like thoughts,
out of my body,
flying,
desperate to find release,
from now and flesh and bones,
forgetting that the tether,
is the peace.
“𝓕𝓘𝓝𝓔 𝓟𝓞𝓘𝓝𝓣,”
says the 𝓢𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓹𝓲𝓮™ in my hand.
Not so fine as it was,
10000 words ago,
what's the good of a 𝓕𝓘𝓝𝓔 𝓟𝓞𝓘𝓝𝓣,
that dulls with use?
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The vape store windows flash,
with to many cheap LEDs,
its clerk exhales a cloud of cherry cobbler chem,
as he paces his glass displays,
his touch lighters are fully stocked,
ready for the night’s rush.
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The ᴍᴇᴛʀᴏᴛʀᴀɴ ꜰɪᴇʟᴅ ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴇᴄʜ unfurls her hose,
from a two-axle tanker truck,
and power washes the filthy bus stop bench,
the faded awning,
the ads for injury attorneys,
with her one and only tool.
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The motorheads across the street,
have called it quits for the night,
drinking domestic beer,
leaning against project bikes,
enjoying ideas of what they will become,
and the mist breezing in,
through the rolled up roll-up door.
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So you want the world to sing for you,
5 minutes before your shift,
at a failing vegan restaurant,
in America's hottest city,
in the hottest summer on record,
in August!
Fucking Auuugust!
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If all that can’t be a song,
do you even have the ears?
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The pale woman reads Meditations,
by Marcus Aurelius,
at the table next to mine,
and if I were a brave / cruel teacher,
I’d knock over her glass,
I’d say,
“𝕀 𝕒𝕞 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕞𝕖𝕕𝕕𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘, 𝕦𝕟𝕘𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕗𝕦𝕝, 𝕒𝕣𝕣𝕠𝕘𝕒𝕟𝕥, 𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕥, 𝕓𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝔸𝕦𝕣𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕦𝕤 𝕨𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕖𝕕 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕠𝕗. 𝕀 𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕥𝕖𝕝𝕝 𝕘𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕖𝕧𝕚𝕝. ℍ𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕟 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕𝕤 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕥. ℂ𝔸ℕ 𝕐𝕆𝕌 𝕃𝕆𝕍𝔼 𝕄𝔼!?”
But I’ve read it to many times to doubt that
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Fucking August.
Devils dance in a desert’s August,
retiring the moment,
I uncross my arms,
and join the mosh
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The young Chicano teen,
in the court ordered sobriety home,
sneaks into Megan’s room,
with two contraband 𝗡𝗲𝘄𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘀™,
sure that he has found love,
in another hopeless place.
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His younger brother is at home,
the controller,
an extension of his body,
the body,
an extension of his soul,
the soul,
in Destiny 2’s glow.
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The newborn cries.
The new parents draw straws.
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The newer born cries,
in the bright fluorescence of the birthing ward,
the only cry,
her five pounds can summon,
one great,
last cry,
before leaving tonight’s rush.
“𝓛 𝓘 𝓕 𝓔 !”
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The officer see the Camaro blow the stop sign,
and lets it be.
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And I stole this,
from Walt Whitman,
who taught me that the world sings,
by naming songs,
one-by-one,
until the infinite events hum,
until the hum fills,
me with one song,
a song to hold,
like the Rose’s broken door,
in the middle of unknown,
letting go,
never letting go.
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I take pride in myself,
I take it from an infinite supply,
I take pride,
until I learn to take nothing,
and give nothing,
giving leaves when taking leaves.
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So you want the world to sing for you,
1 minute before your shift begins?
-
If dishwashing can’t be its song,
do you even have the ears?
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30 seconds before,
I chop the tomatoes from Cali,
fry the potatoes from Idaho,
crush the tofu from Taiwan,
crack cans of coconut milk from Bangkok,
produced by ᴛʜᴇᴘᴘᴀᴅᴜɴɢᴘᴏʀɴ ᴄᴏᴄᴏɴᴜᴛ ᴄᴏ., ʟᴛᴅ.!!!
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1000s of hands have touched the food I touch tonight.
1000s of hands make every menu.
I know near none of them,
and I know them all,
as part of the procession,
as part of the endless middle,
as part of the Night’s Rush,
as part of the world’s song.
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Some grow life in their wombs,
others died since the produce delivery,
leaving me holding the last red onion,
they touched,
leaving me loving,
the silence between the notes.
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