Outreach Night

Sometimes, the same distance
becomes longer.
When the far-off rattle of a train
weaves its way through the city.
When I can take comfort
in the willow trees.
When friends become
strangers.

Climbing the stairs
and I’m thinking of
rooftop explorations,
boastful indiscretions.

Last night
I was ten seconds
ahead of the future.

But now I’m reaching the second floor
And it feels like
it should be
the fourth.

Heaven waits
past the fifth floor landing
But that door
has been locked again.

Back in my room
the mirror is clean,
clothes cover the bed,
and narcissism reigns.

The first lesson is that you can’t trust yourself.

A knock sounds
invisible and impatient.
I can guess whose hand
and the present rolls into focus.

But now I am reminded
how the past is subjective.
I cannot remember
if I said it or not
or whether or not
it was heard.

We make our
short-lived goodbyes.
Urgently chasing
our own happiness.

In the shower,
I curse the rain outside.
I’m trying so hard,
running in place
on slick bathroom tiles,
trying to emerge clean.

The second lesson is that no matter how clean you get, you’ll always need to wash again.

The stars must be there, still,
somewhere behind the pink smudge.
Luminous brushstrokes of light and vapour
fill a sky that I now ignore out of habit.

I am
fixed
on playing catch-up.
Not just for this
lost half-hour
but for the past month.

Lengthy strides are punctuated
by glances at the time,
and anticipation creates the illusion
of deep space.

It’s a fair walk
but what a flight of fancy.
Past the front lines
marked by construction fences.
Behind them
uniform ranks of houses,
sentinels
keeping watch on the road.
What once was ordered
is now swathed in a sea of mud,
pockmarked with footprints
holding murky pools.

Eyes ahead.

Not the time
to look at the past
while on the way
to meet the future.

The third lesson is that everything seems to mean more than it actually does.

I’ve been told
that it’s different each time.
The crowd, relations,
always a new arrangement.

And maybe
it’s a trick of the light,
how our bodies shrink
and our heads
exaggerate.

I see friends
transformed.

Two bright young women.
Two aged and young men.
One pair has ensnared the other
but which holds the leash?

In the verbal scrum
I am cast about.
Friendly words hide the sight
of a scrambling heap of egos,
one clawed down
that another may rise,
only to have its foundation
ripped

away.

The balcony is cold,
and I find no warmth inside.

And now, some words from our generous sponsors.

Dude, this one. This one!
Heeeyy…
How’s it going?
I don’t know what you’re doing… but I like it!
Why does the conversation keep going like this?
Who cares?
Aw… you guys look cuuute…
Yo! Hold up!
Okay, this is your song.
Ten minutes.
Where’s your offering, man?
It’s just gross.
Well, I could drink it for you.
I knew you’d have it!
Hey, can I borrow that?
You see, that is the Battle of Balls-Deep!
What the fuck did you just do that for?

And now, live from a dirty closet, we’re back to our program.

We just got our second wind,
and it’s an hour after midnight.
But it doesn’t feel like
nearly enough.

Strange,
contemplating
while the DJ plays
a game of musical chairs.

It’s still the same room,
but it seems somehow wrong.
The world, tilted,
one degree off-axis.

I’ve run through
an election-year’s worth
of televised debates
in twelve seconds.
But the words
that would have made
a gracious departure
are only showing up at 4am.

The fourth lesson is that chance always trumps fate.

I should be asleep.
As it stands, I’m halfway back.
And once again
the sky is smeared with grit.

I’m being called home
in the company of
far-off train whistles,
a row of willows,
and an automatic door
with a mind of its own.

I guess the real lesson is that nothing ever works the way it’s meant to.