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Maybe my ultimate form
is a mild headache in the shape of a boy.

Maybe I am a quilt
of lukewarm humming grey.

Maybe I am a reasonably priced vintage guitar amp
with the mids rusted into buzz and thrum.

Maybe the lows and highs
are somebody else’s fucking business.
Maybe I am the intersection of antique
and just common old.

Maybe I sat on my potential until it hatched.

Maybe every birth is not a miracle.

Maybe what’s impressive is
how perfectly unimpressive things can end up.

that in itself is miraculous

the grey in the painting is what makes 
the obnoxiously screaming color
tolerable in it’s obviousness.

we wouldn’t know the value of a diamond
if 99 percent of coal didn’t stay coal.

Maybe somebody has to buy the book at full price.
Maybe somebody has to be the audience on a Tuesday.

Maybe the best trick the moon ever pulled off
was just being there.

So we knew that the sun wasn’t dead,
just somewhere else more important at the moment.

About Eirean Bradley

is a 2 time pushcart prize nominated author of 2 full length books of poetry "the i in team" and "the little big book of go kill yourself" on University of Hell Press. He is also the poetry curator on this lovely site. If you think this site sucks, he thinks you are wrong. View all posts by Eirean Bradley

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