WHERE THE SCREAMING MEASURES OUR OWN, YET SOMEONE STILL ATTEMPTS, DARES TO UNDERSTAND by Andrew Buckner

reading what I
should’ve read
decades ago-–

morrison. Morrison.
morrison.

(why did I deprive
myself for so long of
morrison?)---

rich, earthy,
hurting, painful,
yet honest, alive

experiences,
cleansing for
the ailing,

ever-failing,
numb
heart, lungs

oxygen

for a soul trapped
in a glass cage,
a glass coffin

where the traffic passes,
rushes, whirs by
a metallic cage, a metallic

coffin, a metallic bullet–
like Klaus, 1986,
we’re driven mad by our past–

a car— a commonplace
impetus, instrument
of my conformity, mortality

gnawed, frayed wires
signifying my
connection

to a society
of dissonance
cognitive

the bullish, bull-like noises
steady, reiterated, obliterated
by the tedium, demands

of the daily slum,
life, boredom
punctuated by unexpected

bouts of obscenity, profanity
directed, dictated
towards no one,

like Angela in
do Not Expect Too
much From the

end of the World,
the dogs tear
each other apart over

politics, the demon
wind snarls an omen—
(like Father Merrin

in the opening of
The Exorcist)---
the rising sun,

the dissonance
cognitive, reflective,
reactive, the mind

only acting with the hive
where stingers lock,
the wheels screech

our fretting guffaws
of freedom and our paws
aim towards the air

and search for breath
from the bullish,
bull-like noises—

a cell phone,
more profanity,
inanity—

another imitation
of obscenity, our twin,
truest fictional self

is unsheathed
from his cavern for
momentary “likes”

(the metal cage, coffin,
car is tighter ‘round our chest,
holding back our

mighty, spiteful
frame more than
we know)

thus, escape is a world
perfectly realized, imagined,
painful, hurting

yet honest, alive
held, like a galaxy,
in the center of a hand,

written in the language
of stars whose names
we were long aware of,

heard fellow travelers
speak of the greatness,
poetics, relatability of

and eventually arrived to
after various, vague
forgotten journeys, conquests

mortal timidity, vanity
kept us from engaging with,
slowing down

enough to
learn,
grow from,

understand,
see not the night sky
for its collective luster

but to focus in on the brilliance
of one eternally searing sun
becoming a beacon, hanging god-like

over this
brand new,
foreign land

where the screaming measures
our own,yet
someone still attempts,

dares
to
understand.

 

Andrew Buckner is a multi award-winning poet, filmmaker, and screenwriter. His short dark comedy/horror script Dead Air! won Best Original Screenwriter at the fourth edition of The Hitchcock Awards. His recent volume of verse The Burden of All the Beautiful Things was a finalist in the Poetry - General section of the 2024 American Writing Awards. Also a noted critic, author, actor, and experimental musician, Buckner runs and writes for the review site AWordofDreams.com.


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