David Harrison Horton

A Poem for Chinese Magazines

After perhaps.

A mountain full of crows.

A widow seen through an opened window.

A siren heard below.

A narrative.

*

I never talk to strangers.

Strangers make me nervous.

Eyes fixed to sidewalk.

Like watching TV.

Repetition is boring.

*

I read hard books.

I ride my bicycle to work.

I buy beer on my break.

I bicycle home.

I am boring.

*

People tell me art is very difficult.

I like art.

My friends like art.

We often make art.

In fact, this is art.

*

I am riding my bicycle, backpack full of beer.

I have the burden of rules and regulations.

I ride my bike correctly.

I am stupid in many ways.

And you are my friend who likes art immensely.

*

A whisper cat.

A crow.

I have no idea.

Was the mountain made of crows?

Or were there many crows on the mountain?

*

She says crow when she means cancer.

It’s pitiful.

The confusion.

Did Jesus sweep or weep?

It’s all how you say it?

*

I think there is hope

that the I I use is real

but then again

the I I always use

is most likely a faker

*

The beer in my backpack is not beer.

It is whiskey.

My bike is not a bike.

It is two shoes.

However, the great distance is quite great.

*

This is why I am tired.

Not the whiskey.

It is always distance that separates

me

and my friends who like art immensely.