Colin Dodds

Someone Else's Heaven

No one would ever explain the loose ends,
the ones who were more or less thwarted young,
the ones who filled the time or killed the time,
the old stories of hungry, bloody flowers,
the staircases with secrets inside,
the angry women carrying bundles of flowers,
the cartoons in the old man’s will,
the hunters setting traps for themselves,
the man whose body is a writing instrument,
the granite heart that makes the trains go,
the sadness in the granite heart,
the architect who cannot draw an exit,
the many rituals busily fucking the many fears,
the one good thought
that keeps the sky from crushing the people,
or the ones who took the bet
that starts in pain and ends in debt.

Cartoons in his Will

One mountain over, we’re carving a horse.
And though we may, in a matter of course,
for now we won’t say why.

But simply put,
it’s a portrait of you and I.

Later civilizations
will see the horse and recall the cart
and know what variety of knowledge
we have to impart.

Later Civilization

Good times. The deity leaves big tips.
And I can hear the music in my hips.
I spend these years trying to find
The boiling temperature of wine.

I hunt for luxury, for vacant cheeriness,
But only to pass through it.
As if it would wash away my weariness
In ways I can’t intuit.

My highest aim is criminal,
I just don’t know what crime.
My trial is subliminal
And takes up most of my time.

All the truths have been plundered,
The covenants been sundered,
The successes been blundered,
The endgames been wondered.

The players chewed the scenery
until there was nothing left to see.
And it’s so damn hard to be brave
When even the whores own slaves.

Plundered Truths

I fight every night
with my parents
over painkilling drugs
left over from a recent death.

We are the gods who vastly
misunderstood heaven.
We are working out the kinks
with our broken bones and shabby brains.

Left Over from a Recent Death

The beginning
is always a catastrophe.
Your mother
must turn terrifying
for you to leave home.

Stare into My Mouth

We know where we’re from,
where the treasure is buried,
which rock to look under, which star
to look behind, which fate is our own.

But we can not trust ourselves.
It is not diffidence.
We have real reasons
not to trust ourselves.

The fiery guilt in our minds
is not for nothing.
We are not built for wisdom.

Our memories and attention spans
suffice only
to propel a mystery.

Not Built for Wisdom

I spurned those who wanted
to be closer to me
because you can’t be a god
in someone else’s heaven.

I told myself and them
that I wouldn’t be around too long,
that I heard music in my head
that was really music.

Only a sound, a voice
that exists completely
before giving a hint of itself
can appear like that, like music.

And I wouldn’t be so
if it didn’t seem that what I had
was so specifically my own.