Isaac Newton is on the phone with Nikola Tesla. wrapping himself in the cord,
like my sister with her hair, did in the nineties.
his eyes are to the window and his crown is to the wall,
His body is hot like it’s sleeping and he’s twirling his finger like a piston.
He invited me because he can’t be on his own
And The three of us made plans last week because Tesla is in town.
He prefers walking, not flying, and he loves the sound of the rain.
He likes Newton for his eyes, he told me he could love him, but is hesitant for many reasons.
"How electric" I think,
The rounds of a spin cycle,
The lint in the trap,
The water in the pot,
And before he even shows,
Newton is snoring in the still of this rainy night.
As I’ve been, I’m standing behind the fogging glass door, glancing at my watch.
Watch, how the curbs become pacific, How electric is the universe,
throwing curveballs like rain, with the lighting in the sky and
His wet Parisian coat
Could be dracula
Who is Counting his steps and Splashing through the puddled parking lot
Across from Newton’s house.
Over the curb and up stoop and to the door
It looks like my apartment.
How heavy are your clothes Nikola Tesla?
I ask as you shake off your coat.
I ask as you pour
The dark into a mug.
Its earth rotating inside like a carousel.
As the dryer does
Fluttering in between who you are and what we call you.
The dollars and since
we are eating for cheap this broken baguette,
This Is For you and your pigeon.
The gray one
Who’s cooing in the dryer with your wet Parisian coat, by your green paper cranes
She’s hovering at its center flapping like an angel as they spin and fall around her
she’s watching it Spin out addictions
Your coffee sits there, steam dies
and Newton’s in the basement drifting in, drifting out.
“I told him to pace himself.” I shake my head.
“I should’ve said stop.”
There needs to be healthier system. For dealing with dreams.
We need more Aldi.
A middleman of a thousand chains.
“You know Nik, you said that you wish love wouldn’t feel like an addiction, and”
I wake up from my stupor.
And I drive to see myself with my hair, and the flakes in my beard in the morning of the front window where I put the carts.
Where I’m breaking the silence.
The Camels packed behind the Walmart.
Jerome my friend with the “fuck you facist” pin mentions you Nik.
he inhales it’s dark poison
let’s it flutter up his lip and maneuver through his nose ring.
He brings you back to life.
He says “Nikola Tesla”
and I want your drug too.
You’re alive at this walmart now, and even this dunkin coffee in a styrofoam cup is so happy to know that you aren’t taking care of him.
and I look at the streetlamp like its profound, like it going wax some poetry.
“How electric” I think.
Humanity and Romantics built this thing.
Humanity brought to light and how romantic about how little you earned.
You loved a pigeon, and how it defied everything Newton drunk ass couldn’t speak to.
And "that is love I guess"
I thought out loud
Jerome laughs like my drunk aunt Jess,
And So I add
“Loving something isn’t normal.
it isn't rational,
loving a pigeon,
or anything really "
And he replies,
I love Monster, I love dip, I love truck.
How electric, I think, how lovable our drugs can be.
And in the dream last night, I dreamt of you Nik.
Jerome showed me what it is I’m a part of.
A dream where everyone is on drugs
And while you left in the dream last night,
You told me to go on too.
“If you care,
you'll know what's good for you,
If you don't
It doesn't matter.”
About the artist...
David Stobbe is an actor and poet from the Joliet, Illinois, which is known for its prisons and high school symphonic bands. With a B.A. in Musical Theater, he finds a passion in writing about over-exposure. Whether that be sex, information, toxic masculinity, or the self he wants to explore the ridiculous and laughable nature of it all; In our everyday friendships, hookups, the material, all directly affected by casino-like universe in our hands. Through collaboration he wants to harness the potential of the internet, with all of its free content and explore the slow and naive nature of self actualization, romanticized history, selling yourself, and the ever vanishing line of sexuality.
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