‘Mirage’, ‘On the Curb’, ‘A Letter to the State Regarding the Statewide Pothole Repairs Sign’ & ‘My Friend'
Briarwood Bohemian is a multi-disciplinary artist in New York City focusing on sustainability and color expression.
Mirage
The mirage of the good old days
is dissolving like salt
in a dead sea of memories.
Let the mixture soothe their sore throats,
irritated from screaming at today’s concocted crisis:
How they can’t drink without a plastic straw.
How they can’t piss without a gendered bathroom.
God forbid they hear Spanish in a public place.
Let the better times of smoking indoors,
their novel nostalgias,
comfort their troubled, wrinkled minds.
The demented sun finally sets,
and the elderly lose all lucidity.
The mirage has faded.
New generations are left with
the sand that we have inherited.
We will try to make vegetables grow in this desert,
as our ancestors remind us
how beautiful the oceans were.
On the Curb
Pull up some curb next
to me, dear. As we witness
the tire deflate.
Did I see the nail
sticking out of the roadway
like hitchhiker’s thumb?
Of course I didn’t.
You were putting on lipstick.
You know what that does
to me. How am I
supposed to concentrate, when
Venus de Milo
has grown back her arms
to put on mascara in
my passenger seat?
Well the good news is
the hitchhiking nail has just
made a rubber nest
and soon, the tow truck
will play Charon and carry
him down the river
to our mechanic.
To be kicked out of the nest
to see if he flies.
Perhaps he will try
spitting worms in the nail’s mouth
as encouragement.
Maybe he will ask
politely for it to fly
South for the winter.
Likely he will just
pull left and right without the
nail’s consultation.
Like forcing a kid
from a warm bed. Oh, the dream
it was just having...
The nail dreamed it was
a bird, autonomous, and
could choose its own path.
What a pleasant dream
it must have been. Paling in
comparison, though
when weighed against what
distracted me at the start
of this fiasco.
Would you dream with me?
Can we pick up where the nail
left off? I believe
we were chickadees.
You can be Carolina,
I will be black-capped.
Let’s plan a date night
where the mating grounds mix up.
What a lovely dream...
In the meantime, dear,
would you do me the honor
and pull up some curb?
A Letter to the State Regarding the Statewide Pothole Repairs Sign
To whom it may concern:
Are you only repairing potholes that are as wide as a state?
Are you seeking out the widest potholes physically possible a state can manifest,
to fill them with gravel, returning them to a state of solid street?
What state are you using as your unit of wideness?
Delaware?
California?
Texas?
Do you use the Big Island for the width of Hawaii, or
do you take an average of all the islands?
Does Puerto Rico have territorywide pothole repairs?
Are you finished with all
the townwide potholes,
the citywide potholes,
the countywide potholes,
and are climbing the construction ladder all the way up to statewide?
What’s next for your ambition?
Do you go all the way to nationwide potholes?
Or can only the feds fix those potholes ?
Or (less likely)
are you looking to bring together
single, shallow, recently divorced potholes?
Or potholes that have tried the online pothole dating scene
and it just isn’t working out for them?
Are you matchmaking lonely potholes, and re-pairing them anew,
with a like-minded, experienced cut of road
to unite in holy pothole matrimony?
I doubt it.
I know one thing, for damn sure.
I know you aren’t repairing the potholes in this state.
My Friend
The birds do not need
your hair, your teeth, your carcass.
Save them for the worms.
Save this corpse for dirt,
for this corpse is not my friend.
My friend is sunlight.
My friend is pure rays
golden, breaking through the clouds
on Spring’s first warm day.
My friend is more than
flesh, my friend exists in the
eyes of the minds of
all who cherish him.
My friend is a tapestry
of our memories.
Take this tapestry,
you birds, and quilt together
an eternal nest.
So that my friend may
live on in your lives as he
has been blessed in mine.
So that your young can
feel the warmth of his presence,
and bask in his glow.
And when they outgrow
the faceless form of my friend
and take their first flight,
I hope they carry
a block, or a patch of the quilt,
some parcel of him.
When their seasons change,
as seasons are meant to change,
they will remember
the meaning of warmth,
the glow of our history,
the light of my friend.
Matthew Bailey is a musician breaking into the world of poetry. He graduated with an albatross of a Bachelors of Science from York College of Pennsylvania in Music Industry and Recording Technology. He lives with his soon-to-be wife Dylann and a poorly-behaved akita named Ursa in New Jersey. You can keep up with Matthew on his Instagram or Bluesky @mymattisname.
