Dylan Emmons

1  After “Song of Myself”

The gas in my pepsi can is the gas in me, in us, unites us;  even after we part ,we remain inseparable. Belch with me, dukes and daisies, cats and kids, lets’ hear you, from your souls! From beneath your soles - belch the churning magma now cranking the continents back together.  Belch the past, the future.

2

Once, at a birthday party, I wrecked a go-kart taking a bend too fast and the tire’s defeated angle stayed with me -  I’d tried overtaking a friend and ended up here, watching from my perch deep in the future and of course I really never understood how it is you’re supposed to pass someone from within a circle.  Eighth grade lives, baby, Cisneros’ years jingling like fortunetellling bones.  I’m no less jostled by the wiry flash of lingerie or pummeling the next Muslim country;  I’m still eating the same pizza, petting the same cat pelt, cramming into the same pants, cultivating a tender touch and a love of violence.  I still hate god and wish he’d climb down from his moon bone throne and chew me up or lift me up directly; just now, I’m not afraid to know it. I can’t believe I ever felt guilty for touching myself in the same way I can’t believe I ever thought I’d be alone forever.  I mean the chances of any of this happening, sitting here now in front of you all?  The gift of wiping my daughter’s nose. The chances so small, I’m unsure it’s happening, or whether that matters - the reality of it, the sureness.