Two Poems | by PJ Carmichael

90’s

The high today
is in the 90’s,

sun beating life
into a salt-soaked frenzy,

liters of sweat sealing scars,
old wounds to never reopen,

save for those quiet eternities,
internal bleedings at 2 AM.

8 AM now and the shirt’s
drenched in heat and liquid,

messy start to a scorcher,
bodies of water beckoning me

to indulge in immersion
(they’d love to touch).

A day to swim through,
some stubborn lessons to learn

and forget, all colluding in
eventual bloom, the growth of ages.

The high today
is in the 90’s,

and the sun is too tired
to set, sleep, and slumber.

Blinding waves of gold break
through the discomfort of bare

legs stuck to the seats
of public transportation.

 

The marvels of modern technology provide
relief as the AC turns on.

 

Rows of purple benches
line the weary traincar;

it swells with passengers,
the influx of the daily grind.

From one wanderer to another:

“It’s fucking hot out today.
The high is in the 90’s.”

 

 

 

Medical Arts Building

Some abandoned building
she once explored, her stories
always welcome and true.

Can’t remember which part

of it all is still in use,
which areas are off
limits.

We drive past with
the pond on our left
and the hospital’s corpse
on our right,

the brutal heat outside
kicking everyone’s ass
who remains in the sunlight.

(Decay has a face
and it looks like nostalgia.)

Someone once pulled a fire
alarm in an empty hallway;
no one’s ventured in
again after that.

 

Silver lettering labels
the skeleton, titles this
poem, waves goodbye

as the vehicle travels
onwards.

Like any good moment,
this one is fleeting.

 

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PJ Carmichael is a writer, artist, explorer and spiritualist from Wakefield, Massachusetts. He frequently finds himself caught between the forestry of New England and the nightclubs of its cities. His interests include immersion in the natural environment and subsequently extend into the metaphysical.

 

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