Convergent Double Golden Shovel for Leaving the Ground in Black and White
after “Rough Landing, Holly” by Yellowcard
The plane fucking crashed. Tell me what happened when we
tumbled hard, pass-pawn, stone-cracks down tattoo arms. Hard came,
myself, until I couldn’t bear it, downed a last one. Pop-tumble down
side lantern, exactly enormous, one more time, from tip to
razor, all the way to Kansas City from Ottawa to find some watch-
man, the world away. Send it. Give it the shot I’m taking. Ignited the
combustible machine-edge, little jackrabbit of a world
gauzed up, literally spilling red from its cheeks. On a walk,
witnessed absolution in a fire deep in the sky. Tomorrow, by
mourning, we’ll be ready. Hang tight. Daze and
hang it all in the air — we’re keeping it here for all
the blaze we could find — I was told that she
was forgiving, could have been brightened, but soft-found,
fading… I forgave that way to heaven. When I was
eight years, circle in, circle out, engine burst in, find trouble
walking into a million different possibilities, each playing out in
more dimension than I cared to understand. Put it on my
fucking Visa card, yes, I’ll doubt this forever, but won’t forget eyes
Didn’t just inaugurate sound, and light, but — she…
dubious, frequently hurt-slouches out the club, calls
enormous beats flying like paper slips off walls out-
shined, tip. I’m Holly, you see, minerals and minarets claim the
starter I could never find, and I guess I forgot about you, farther,
locker stuffed with that drab outfit you’d rather have bagged — that
one time she thought I’d never last in. Trust me, turn the key I
gave you, dumpling-wrapped, somehow-trying-to-fly
gas mask, I tell you the truth, disappearing into “I”
confusion. It’s time-to-take-off or a never-ever-love,
the photographs that cushion the landing. Thought that
wouldn’t put me in an early casket, but something about that sound
didn’t give me grief. I’m trying to let go of something so glowing, so
aching, I was giving back to ourselves in some cycle of give,
in the smallest of burst-full envelopes to mail to nowhere. Me
miserable, ways, trying a place to escape to — name me Holly, one
religion, some little-death, but so much more —
that do not see, so much that couldn’t drag the line
under the blue topping an endless ceiling. From
here to eternity, we’ll always wonder about the
mechanics of activating the sky,
consuming ourselves farther than she
wanted to ask for. What did I do? I’m just Holly, I just pulled
the lever, and a catastrophe unrolled beside me —
tear this fucking glassy skyscraper — this terror shine — down
and get off the damn drugs. I’m trying to imagine some damn lights in the horizon tonight,
but unfortunately, God wouldn’t let our sins go, wouldn’t let
anything into that fitting room with that black dress — and her
telling me, “just cut off the back” — “just backless” — “just breathe” — “just go.”
Young Fenimore Lee (they/them) is a Korean-American kid, poet, and music journalist whose work has appeared in beestung, DIALOGIST, Entropy, Existere, filling Station, and other publications. Indie rock, emo, post-hardcore, and other music genres are important influences in their writing. They are editor/founder at Jellybones Mag (jellybones.net). They received a BA from Stanford University and an MFA from The New School. They are currently pursuing a PhD at Ohio University.
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