Sonnet or something. By/for/from/to David Lynch.

Lynch in the air. 

Cold breeze, earlobe, status, merely 

breathing for a pit-bound Sun. 

Stash eternity under the meadows, farmer’s

ploughs, the fundamental surreptitiousness of earthy tones. 

Lynch in the water.

Sarcophagus for the All-father, tears

for a lost mundanity, it’s 

all so serious now, it’s 

all so serious now. 

Midnight in a perfect world is nothing 

without soft feathers to guide my hand. 

Anesthetized to connotation, 

to gulp the sky down like hangover water,

to watch the arsonist like mom a baby,

to touch perversions of the city like lemon touches thickened milk;

like the robins touch the branches, like 

the filmmaker screws Life. 

Lynch on a bench. 

Sitting, smoking, wondering, frowning, lurking, absent, lurking, mindless, lurking, doubled, 

fighting voices, splitting hairs, greying, fading, smoking, dying. 

Lynch on a bench, smiling.

Bench on camera. 

You’re driving down the highway seeing 

nothing but the road. 

The summer air falls heavily, 

the sky is one huge cloud. 

A quaint annihilation 

pursues you from behind. 

There isn’t time for answers, it’s questions you must find. 

Your face is scrunched up, petrified, slathered in magic dirt. 

You’re turning on the radio, and out comes not a word. 

A child with a demon’s head, you swerve but not in time. 

There is no impact, there’s no cry, you’re fine, your Chevy’s fine. 

There’s two worlds now. One

living, and one haunting you. 

The only clarity you have left

is some makeshift, scrapyard tunnel 

drilled in consciousness, connecting, wiring

life and haunting, haunting life. 

The only certainty you have left is

Lynch, in the ground.