The Crash-Commissioner's Smoking Cavity
I have become a crash commissioner
to the cross-eyed wonder-mongers
of broken faiths,
in a reality of exceptional gravity,
but right now I’m getting nowhere,
& the great years heave themselves up
out of the forests;
rise all the way into the rainclouds;
threatening, dangerous, blind
My face floats soundlessly
over a collected lifetime,
silent as an oncology waiting room
Yes, my face shines its way forward
over the coffee cup in my hand,
balanced
on the iron-brittle equilibrium of the world,
which can easily be disturbed
by a badly mauled thought
that comes loose
and expands exponentially
Certainly,
I am a prime-numbered crash commissioner
with unfactual facts,
unfailing in my convincing despairs,
the sea surfaces concave
toward the heavens’ convex gravities,
where all facial expressions lean
I am a crash commissioner
in a spell-bondage of autumn inconsolability,
year-child & alderman,
careless with landscapes;
brooks & rivers groping in naked nights
I am a talismaned, mannered
crash commissioner,
my lips gripping the rim of the coffee cup
Smoke rises from my oral cavity,
and the fence of the teeth stands enamelled
in Iliadic battle-readiness,
word by word,
and the day aches pedagogically
in the ongoing pagination
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
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Written on 2026-09-01 at 11:55
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