Down And Out

I:

When I’m Empty


This is where I go nowhere, live in the home I have—
I see time as a tired burn and surrender these embers
to you. I’m calling inside the black and blue to give
it a twist. Here I’ll take a halo from that delicate wire

let it taste my hands. Disenchanted, I ghost the dance
try it on and lose my grip; here I find a life as passerby.
Pleasure is in these prayers. The same old heart, the rust
and again I’m waking up. Mend it: Give me loud tonight.

A ring of fire outside is my overdrive, my ghost
is one to pass through. My head is worth keeping
and two strangers turn to song and turn the screws.
And friend, I swear, I swear, the years fucking burn.

It’s a life of rope and wrist and here I open wide;
stuck spilling night, we know a lullaby understands.

 

 

II: 

Two Strangers


Stuck spilling night, we know a lullaby understands
halo by halo into the years. Home is in your fire,
a whisper for yesterday—here I’m waking up loud
and sick with overdrive. I let my rage have the stars.

Blame it on confession, damned and disenchanted,
the bearer of bad news waiting on the motorway
The ruse starts breaking up, dreaming just to hide
I let down my sleeve. I’m part death and part sky

waiting for the chance to burn through grace.
We breathe, we breathe low and long, feel the rope
of a delicate world, give it a twist, pray in the rust.
I turn over the years, they keep coming back up.

Wheel out the sun, chase it deep in the heart of a friend
I twist and disappear in the dance, breaking the road.

  

III:

Let It Turn


I twist and disappear in the dance, breaking the road
keeping back the strangers in their masks, the embers.
You’re spilling over me, a ring of sky for growing old
and I can choose to taste the ghost; we breathe in years.

My ruse is a reason to bleed, my heart and wings apart,
everything I’m not spilling, spilling—a one-way flame.
Love is shame. And in my hand there’s a burn bright
enough for ignition—a new day rising down for one.

And I hate waking—a lullaby breaking at the wrist,
a vacant town for rust and song. I’m a little empty,
blues and stars the same, a taste around my screws.
I’m a motorway for the down and out—come play,

hold the rope one more time. We stand in the leaves—
this is where I go nowhere, live in the home I have.

 

 

Note: This is a found poem. Source material: Foo Fighters. One By One Roswell/RCA, 2002.

---

E. Kristin Anderson is a poet and glitter enthusiast living mostly at a Starbucks somewhere in Austin, Texas. She is the editor of Come as You Are, an anthology of writing on 90s pop culture (Anomalous Press), and her work has appeared in many magazines. She is the author of nine chapbooks of poetry including Pray, Pray, Pray: Poems I wrote to Prince in the middle of the night (Porkbelly Press), Fire in the Sky (Grey Book Press), 17 seventeen XVII (Grey Book Press), We’re Doing Witchcraft (Porkbelly Press), and Behind, All You’ve Got (Semiperfect Press). Kristin is a poetry reader at Cotton Xenomorph and an editorial assistant at Porkbelly Press. Find her online at EKristinAnderson.com and on Twitter at @ek_anderson.