“Death, Is Always,” a Rumpus Original Poem by Amy King


Death, Is Always

Turning my hair inside out, I only see
Emma Bee making sense of excess,
making something of it online, via high fashion,
which shouldn’t be but is,
along with every other thing,
both uber- and central- Pacific—
Turns out the world is a big one. So,
This is where I am tonight:
between bourbon and eggnog,
thinking in laps about the exquisite gap
of macro to micro evolutions, that is,
relativity to quantum mechanics,
and I don’t know if string theory will tie us together
as shuffled and promised,
or if we ever will truly transport, Spock-like,
but I like the guy who keeps going at it,
hacking away at the “only game in town,”
not mine. I’m in the wilderness, undoing math
from mechanics. Michio Kaku and Richard Dawkins
should probably sit down
over drinks, not coffee, in the inebriation way
and have at it. Symbiosis ensues, hatchets in and out,
and we all get rowdy in their afterglow.
Somehow I think this type of fire query,
this instigation of what gets roughed
up —not in the bar-brawl fashion—
in the fray of how we go next
to each other without any truth or absolute
might be Beauty too. Picasso and Da Vinci
and Kahlo and Tanning ventured other routes,
as did many others and still. The boat rocks
on and gets moored, even sinks—but it all floats up
in outer space, these giant rocks of glowing stars
and asteroids exploding wormholes.
The calculations look back at us
too, making out with the abyss
that is also mute with questions,
and laughs a guttural song that sounds
not unlike Britney Spears mouthing
“Till the World Ends” in the background.
Even the theorists lean back to wonder what
it’s like to be the difference
between what is heralded by prophecy versus
what settles the corners
of their own bedroom cushions.
Not usually concerned with mass appeal
or content, they admit to the occasional
wilderness call, as easy as passing
water or making more humans to live through.
Much comes to those who can displace
the public lust and place it back in their beds,
though, even in that, we’re uncertain as to just what.
Which artist is it that explores
exactly how bodies intersect
and which ones attract in their distance?
In this equation, we meet with other equations
that resemble tattoos to astronauts
looking up close from the distance of personal planets.
Until our moons collide, when we speak
the languages of foreign entities, we remain in orbit,
camped up in our own gear, walking separate runways,
lipsticked and watching others turn on high heel,
as we spin about, toe to toe, quiet on our own.

Amy King

Read the Rumpus Review of I Want to Make You Safe.

Original poetry published by The Rumpus. More from this author →