Poetry

Red Light Green Light Blue Light The Light

Siddhartha catharsis, “yeah right” enlightenment.
Contra-spiritual chemical miracle, “woah, slow down” spiral.
Higher plain by plane, “sure okay” it helps to get away.
Romance slow dance, “as if” passive or active.

The other day I woke up to a screwdriver and Illinois,
it finally felt like I was glad to wake up until everyone I know
told me I was living the wrong way
driving breathalyzer failure Google Maps cars.

Singular earth revolution recap:
rectify not giving a fuck in Europe check,
Atlantic Vox Times Week and coffee check,
listen to the burdens of blood through faulty bars check,
method act in my Oscar-winning role as a hamster check,
find the words to “Letters and Packages” in “For Esme” check,
pretend I’m Paul Simonon on the cover of London Calling check,
live for the people I love instead of telling them I’d die for them check,
go an hour without thinking about—maybe I’ll check that one tomorrow.

And maybe I’ll try SoulCycle, and quit smoking,
and knit myself a wool mask, and join a committee or a club,
and start studying landmark cases, and let my daffodil wither,
and put my drug-damaged teeth to good use
and bite through my fucking tongue
because you can’t hate me if you can’t hear me.

Last night I dreamt about everything that’s always on my mind,
finally betrayed by my last refuge of sleep.
Time to wake up and start watching.

Besides, this morning I awoke and I haven’t shut the fuck up since—
“green light” feels right, “they care” stay there,
but “stop gawking” and start walking.

And get over yourself—SoulCycle might do you some good,
you daffodil dummy.

– Breidy Cueto

Published in Spring 2018 Issue.

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