What It Sounded Like

The what of the nothing : the trash bins
parked alleyside are a Velvet Underground song :
waiting for the man : every wish I've ever had
re waiting and rain is answered by my wife
who is at present not scared of anything be
cause she's asleep though even awake she fears
little, less certainly than I do, for instance
the firecrackers two nights back, bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang, you think
all eight bangs are excessive in this poem and
they are, as excessive as they were to listen to
at 1:27am when I was confused and groggy enough
to believe the reports were of a caliber meant
for a less playful ordnance and perhaps, who knows,
those blasts were gunshots in which case please
don't let my sleeping wife know I heard eight shots
fired two nights back in the alley in which
our trash bins stand dim as didn't-see-nothing witnesses, let's
not even address how celebration
and darker urges both feature gunpowdery claps
and the what of nothing : I wrote that four days ago,
before I heard maybe/maybe-not gunshots
in the alley, it was a question that sounded fun
to lazily consider in a pot-smoked way but now
I'd like instead to ask what is the color of going
forward or what is the smell of wondering about
weaponry and protection or what is the taste of
the pen I've been looking my whole life for, the one
with which I'll finally write some lines that don't try
to hang out with songs of my youth or my early-
adulthood fears : certainly there's some whole big
other excessive set of questions I've yet to begin
to wonder about in some alley I'll who knows
maybe someday find, dodging usual bullets.
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Weston Cutter

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