The Neighborhood | Chris Martin

for Brandon Brown

Metronomic thwack
of windshield wipers keeping
the streets aligned
and mesmerizing the cat
into porcelain energy on the sill
it was the last weekend
before our resurrection
as fragments of infinite tone
replacing the cell set
like sloughing
a long scarlet glove
it was erotic
in ways unforeseeably jeweled
by syntactic fieldwork done on hush
I was partly human partly
waves breaking quiet
on wide tarmacs of conversation
that surged or dimmed
thwack thwack
retuning the neighborhood solemn
each tree nodding
off before jolting into readiness
I was holding my neighbors
like deep green
swaths of virgin grain
holding the neighborhood
by fear
of whatever new malevolence
might be thwack
I was peeling my enemies
off like face cards
thwack thwack
in the dark protuberant dusk
when the film began
a film about the neighborhood
and how it survived
endless hours of parking
to explode like an ancient firearm
whose only ammunition
was a rare and musky fungus
a fungus that covered the brain
in strands of erotic convergence
our beautiful erotic neighborhood
underneath the streetlamps
which fizzle orange
in the long erotic future
our long orange erotic neighborhood
of the future

(The Volta | They Will Sew The Blue Sail | Bio)