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Tate McRae
Trusting my arm still wrestles
when I disappoint, I turn up foible
how you upend a breaking bop bubble.
Drinks at my table on a night select
the burden shows like a ball belted
every burr faraway withered learned
just as I'm about to, as a table friend
The selling line this month:
give your heartbeat a munch
it's simple, get out of your rut.
I'm dead in the water
afloat as any bad umbrella
if the dawn is to pull me under
it'll need this day’s sun way fuller
for it’s only in it's caring so sombre
a bad mind gets the moon as brighter.
Letting go wanders my bedroom
glibbing the old doormat to resume
draping my windows in a baroque mood
it's my bible who strays me above ignoble
its new feathers torch my bones to crumble
familiar words stay watch of my inner battles
for in every room I enter is its box to dismantle.
Inflation becomes how you speak
words grabbing thoughts I seek
while you proffer up nothing
and ever I ask what's new
maybe it's gun jumping
writing you now bleak.
Staying out this late in the maze
with my precocity parapet face
everyone recognises my delay
or at least, the day to break
in their heads, but a frame
two new dozen hours again
they'll miss my surrogate
but think later the same
of darkness; wee shame
I'm a cathedral place.
With much thoughts sardined
resting spoofed ringing dins.
When winter comes, the only thing I can say for certain is that snow falls from the sky—solid matter that brings with it many fun activities. And since I’m easily convinced, I adjust well, enjoying the games I play throughout the seasons.
The seasons are like faces and pages on the World Wide Web: everyone is somewhere, mentally or physically—as odd as it may seem, my seasonal experiences are all virtual and vicarious—with someone of the same species ID, and in some cases robots, and since we still have a finite number of pronouns, this puts everything into perspective and makes life quite easy.
I'm saying these poems were written with more of your thoughts than mine.
I’d love to thank every one of you—every single person who is happy that someone like me can come this far. You’re the ones I owe all the acknowledgments for this one.
To Tate McRae, I just want to say you’re awesome. Your voice could light up a train station of tired horses hours after five p.m., and make them dance for minutes. You’ve got my ears and heart, darling.
Happy Pride Month 2025.
