Fleeting + Entrails

A poem you would throw over a house. An almost known but still unknown consequence. Never peek at the prank. A golfball into the ocean.

Liminal sense of sending a tennis ball skyward
over a home without knowing what rests
in the backyard what was left out when
the parents finally called their kids in
as the sun finishes setting in act II
summer prompting the moon to rise and call
all your friends out into the cul de sacs
to ride your bike tires along the curved curb lines
of the seconds hand ticking by on the night’s clock
what to do what to do what to do

△ △ △ △ △

My entrails are only 30 minutes long, which is fortunate for whomever comes upon this scene, trying to uncover the series of events that led to the current state. I imagine my entrails are found in an alley, spewed over old milk crates and eventually they warrant police tape. CAUTION: DO NOT READ THE MESSAGES DISPLAYED IN THE GUTS. The case is broken up by an unlikely character with an off the beat view of the world who doesn’t own a watch. They have a hard time being heard between the newspaper spreads about anything else. They might ever die in a similar looking alley before anyone listens to what they already said. But before that my entrails are misunderstood. Examined and dissected, people find unfathomable linkages between Part A and Part B while onlookers from a couch nod and say they knew it they knew it they were just waiting for someone to prove it. The most daunting part of the whole scene, while brief, is how much was fit into those 30 minutes. At points, calf deep in entrails, you could lay down and submerge yourself. Some will lay down, inhale, send up bubble from their noses. They will not know more but can say they dove in and when that unlikely character speaks up in a forum at attention to hear them speak up those who submerged themselves will have a pleasure of knowing they told us so.