Spit

Ryan Emmert

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?

— TS Eliot

I spit a few words:

the way I hate, stubborn,

arrogant, full of hot air,

sick pleasure. This much

I know: I am a fool

stumbling around, searching

for an empty pedestal,

Whatever is real, however,

lingers — cloud prosperity,

thinking otherwise,

in the head, in which the angel

roams, waving hair and

gold chains behind,

laughing like a fish.

In the courtyard,

a few friends gather,

smoke and laughter,

lines between them,

and we trip in the ghetto

street’s belly,

along a southbound Highway

nailed together by a

white dotted line.

Voice full blast in the

foliage of breath, the climax

of fate, of a flowering sky —

he is quiet, he wants to cry.

Until this much,

and this much brings comfort:

world growth, and the aging

of the old and the happy.

This is how it became,

in a matter of however many

scary moments.

I stand in a shallow pool

of withering drab, an effigy of

fear, letting birds come and go;