by Kyle Harvey
“To be born a transcendental brilliant shattered star.”
–Seth Kauffman, Desert Etiquette
To be born real and/or complex–
maybe or maybe not so much rare
but rather hard to show. I felt for my face
my chest, soft parts, my sadness–
all still here. All, still here. Still
something is missing and it feels
like something more than a little.
Forbes, the leading voice on things
of this nature, obviously, declares a myth
of sadness and depression’s synonymy
which, of course, is a pile of shit.
I have never heard anyone say
nor said myself, I’m just so happy
I could kill myself. Why not? At best
it’s difficult to come to terms with
ourselves. At best we hope to sing
through the sky, with any luck
leaving a brilliant tailing behind.
Kyle Harvey is the editor of Fruita Pulp. His first collection of poems Hyacinth (Lithic Press 2013) was a finalist for the Colorado Book Award and his poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in American Life in Poetry, Electric Cereal, Fat City Review, Heavy Feather Review, HOUSEGUEST, Mama Liberada, Metatron, Ossuary Whispers, Pilgrimage, Reality Hands, SHAMPOO and SP CE. His new serial poem, July, was recently published by Lithic Press.