Adam Jordan

The new emerges from a well of human tissue, and I’m smoking on my parents’ porch even though I shouldn't, I’m not addicted anymore. A hazy feeling sets over the woods with the sun, and I pull the pink and orange into my lungs. A cool fog lifts up from the garden — I used to know him, he made incredible music. Heard from my sister he has a beautiful blond, autistic toddler now. Red glow from the airbase takes over from sunset. Pylons fall off the horizon. Phone lines sway with something heavy, and my tongue feels heavy in my mouth with smoke, like the names of people I know I haven’t talked to. I think it’s okay to smoke at your parents’ house, under huge trees you’ve always known. I want tar to collect in my blood, pad my facial bones. I think we age like the Earth, through a process of erosion / denudation and sedimentation, under the weight of the atmosphere moving. We're collecting dirt from everywhere we've been in our stomachs, in our phlegm, nail growth and new skin. Paint chips from each old house, bits of fall leaves doing yard work. I know at least once, I licked rust as a kid in Warren, Ohio. I think we age like Youngstown, Ohio. One day I'll wake up, rub my eyelashes open, and they'll crumble into red and orange. Let my lips build rust like a factory. Let my eyelids rust until they get little holes, and I can't fully close them. I think it's normal to feel self-destructive when you're home, in Ohio.