Artwork courtesy Tex Fontanella and John M. Bennett
and it’s all lilacs now
and it’s all lilacs now, and it’s summer, leave the
windows open, keep the windows open kind of
summer. City breathing in past the balcony,
colliding on a crash course with my chest while
I’m staring, staring at the orange outside the
window while the light and air cradles my balls
and shines on her ass.
Listening to the natural and urban jazz passing
by, we’re making rhythm baby, we’re writing
melody, we’re improvising on the fly, we’re drums,
and birds, and horny, and we’re moving just like
seasons, and we are part of summer, and it’s all
lilacs now.
For once the pieces whole, all at once complete, all
come together, and I get it all, and I’m dripping
out of her, and it’s all lilacs now.
The melody resolves, the chord progression
played, the chords played by a fucking
triumphant parade of marching bands with
telecasters slung over their shoulders, and it’s
choreographed and overcast, choreographed on a
scale so grand it doesn’t seem planned. To the
untrained eye, cloudy, foggy, overcast, but now
we’re trained, now its clear, and now we
understand.
and shit I guess this is it, ya know, the big one,
what all the writers write about, what all
reporters report on, and what all analysts
analyze. But now it’s mine and it’s all cherry soda,
and it’s all lemon twists, and it’s Christmas,
firework displays, mangos, and lazy Saturdays.
and if this isn’t it then fuck it, it’s the next best
thing, it’s the new thing
it’s the goddamn thing to do, and it’s all purple,
and it smells so sweet,
and it’s all lilacs now.
and if the empire falls around us, if it crumbles
and can’t stand back up then it’s all lilacs now
Innumerable Stumble 