LUKE BLOOMFIELD


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
BAD WEATHER

When I wake up
the sky looks like
something terrible happening
in the distance getting closer.
You are also always
looking out the window.
Spooning is our salvation
in this apocalyptic milieu
we have awoken to.
The park is on fire.
People in the park are on fire.
Maybe today isn’t a good day
to go to the park, you say.
I imagine you walking along the path
we always walk along in the park,
stopping and bending down
to inspect a flower or something
while a wall of flames backlights you.
People flap their arms and run into each other.
You are oblivious to fire.
Children play make-believe on sidewalks.
You remind me we’re out of milk.
What does it matter? I say.
You pull away from me.
I put an ocean between us.
You’re standing on the shore.
I’m standing on the shore
but it’s the opposite shore
to the one you’re standing on.
You trace an arc in the sand with your toe.
Your fingers interlock behind your back.
I can feel the heat at my back.
You turn to me and after a moment of not saying anything
you say, if you don’t want to get milk
I guess we could have eggs.
Next door someone begins to play the violin.
How appropriate that the violin
should start playing right now!
I didn’t know anyone lived next door, you say.
I imagine the violin playing on its own, getting louder,
more urgent, like some kind of masturbation.
I want to say, that’s just…life.
A crescendo in the next room I can only
construct unreal images of.
An auto-erotic world where everything is objective
and self-contained, where expressions of dependency
are meaningless, where solitude is….
We are a single chunk of mineral ponderously descending
a mountain over the course of several million years.
You swing your leg across my body.
Your leg erases the absurdity of space.
I would spend my entire life
building a pyramid around you
only to complete it and have you tap me on the shoulder
and say “forget something?”
Understanding is only any good
when put to use toward
not understanding
everything else.
Like this bad weather.
Like this collapsing system
we depend on.
Forget it, you say.
And I had.
 
 
 
 
I’M TOO HAPPY

I yearn to be sad because that’s more interesting, right?
To be the saddest, that’s what we’re all aiming for.
Everything gets cancelled out by everything.
Is this why a lot is said but nothing gets recorded?
That man asleep in front of the cell phone store
is looking at me, but clearly does not see me any more
than I see him.
I feel extra ordinary.
I’m going to justify everything with a word.
Cabbage.
 
 
 
 



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