All the Day Long
We watched the bee die
in the shade
and on the sidewalk sun cut through
in the usual ways. A tiny garden in a box
a kid went WHACK to. Now it’s raining
the city's busy uninventing taxis
I mean that’s New York, I mean.
Walking home I thought about saying
“when a person dies ...”
but somebody already did.
Just a few days ago.
Personally it’s more interesting
to live. When I start to feel like
“everything” and “nothing”
I would like to transport myself
to a great white room
and think O good I can be happy again.
Turn on the light look in the mirror
bees pour out of the faucet.
That’s not supposed to happen.
On the street w/ Brie she asks
about our old life I say You know
I find that really sad. Just days ago
G texted me Making sure u have a hotel
for my wedding?? I’m sorry no
I won’t be coming and there
the sun beams out of the sky.
It transmits these little haiku. Like stay /
inside a lot / rain might come.
That wasn’t one of them.
But it felt that way and how about
when Schuyler says “The smell of snow ...
I am not suicidal”
I think maybe he is. Was.
Wake up there’s no more sun
White ceiling / my favorite cloud.
Apology
The pencil’s shadow stood up
while I was writing gossip
this was unexpected although
it didn’t feel all that important
the pencil’s been a great friend
often I just lie in bed holding it
in my right hand imagining what
I will write the next morning but
this time felt different for some
reason the pencil’s shadow loomed
over me from behind my chair
syllables rushed through me it was
such a thrill until I felt the yellow
pressing into my neck I knew
it was the pencil’s shadow it asked
if I could write something I said OK
I guess but make it quick the shadow
said Don’t worry it will be and for
a second I considered standing up
and confronting the shadow b/c
who does the shadow think it is
waltzing into my life on a Friday night
and just as I was about to stand
to pick up my chair and hold it
over its head the shadow whispered
in my ear please write Dear Words
I’m sorry for leaving you in icy
graveyards for years without ever
picking you up I know it’s lonely there
I said You can’t possibly be serious
and the shadow said Oh but I am
L.O.S.T.
Gradually I rise from
The barely empty forest
& now it’s afternoon
In some other town
Like Skagway, Alaska
Or possibly Helsinki
1:11 P.M.
Wobbles on my watch
The closer I get
To these clouds
I realize I can’t pull them apart
Red couch on rooftop
You are the fire ant
A chihuahua dreams upon
Nothing is so fascinating as
People jumping from planes
Screaming
Mutiny!
Eureka!
I sold a kidney
To pay off my loans!
Hello I say
As they pass me
In dayglo windsuits
Rising further
Until I hear something
Pop
Timothy Michalik is a Michigan born poet and an MFA candidate at NYU, where they teach undergraduates and edit poetry for Washington Square Review. The founding editor of the journal/press Copenhagen, they are the author of two chapbooks, Neopastoral (Petroglyphes) and Moscow, Iowa (Umpteen Triangles).