Typewriter Series #2552 by Tyler Knott Gregson
Text for Tired Eyes:
What of all these places, stuffed into the center
of me, pulling on seams, leaking stories
like feathers, one at a time, more if you pull?
I of many lives, when they spill they sound
manufactured, short stories of fiction
wrapped up in a cover of skin.
Here, the shell seeker, hunting bubbles
on sandy shorelines, watching snakes be
swung in circles overhead, grandfather
protecting those from venom. There,
first learning of death.
Here, segregation still separating a
community, years beyond what was shown
on news channels, in papers. Shaped,
I was, by friendships that caused
fingers pointed and whispers, hatred
manifesting in old prejudice, I loved
who I loved, called family who my heart
felt safe with, no color mattered. There,
first learning of ignorance.
Here, wandering across a nation, off the
interstates, out of the spotlights
and into the deserts, into the shadows
of the Sandias, into the forgotten corners
of states, small stadiums filled
with big dreams. There,
first learning of harsh realities.
I, man of many lives, and haunted
though I may be from them all,
from their singing inside,
I call it nothing else, but
-Tyler Knott Gregson-