25 (Fuck are we, Toto?)

Hope is a house-shaped
cutout on the near horizon

I fall through a hole in
the sky, land on a
road beneath a red sun
burning down on all this
space
I walk down a gray lane
that seems to know the
way, dark thread unraveling,
insinuating,
placid crops to either
side, and I don’t know
where this is but it isn’t
Kansas, and it sure
as fuck isn’t Oz
There are no stripe-socked,
ruby-slippered witches protruding
from beneath this house,
but who’s to say there isn’t one
inside?
Sometimes information leads
to clarity, sometimes to confusion
Sometimes it’s safe to walk in the
shadows, sometimes they’re best
left alone
Sometimes the run-away option
is the only one on the board
worth following up on
Through a black door,
I find new ghosts–or they
find me–bottling emotions,
guzzling others,
and dancing to songs they
never could hear before

Steel slices wind, and
I step through the tear

Poem by Shane Douglas Keene

READ THE SERIAL NOVEL BY JOSH MALERMAN