Brian Bowman
Poetry is a pastime that keeps his swirling thoughts from overwhelming his mind. He spends his time talking about nothing with his friends and reading old stuff. In three years, he sees himself gardening, making wine, listening to records, and mentoring teenagers in the public school system.
Spaces
by Brian Bowman
Right now, the world is ending.
Spaces are growing arbitrarily large,
houses appear smaller outside than in.
The whole universe could fit into my skull.
Comfort is a scratched scalp,
massaging the world, and every tiny atom
vibrating within it, telling us
that one of the final seconds
has slipped into unobtainable history
which is memory, where I remember a red car
and you remember a blue car,
cruising down the strip, burning the putrescent remains
of an ancient reptile who met an unfortunate end,
but not before she looked up to the sun, blinked her eyes,
which, through unfathomable processes become our eyes,
laying her eggs--tiny spaces containing
everything we are and will be.
