Two poems by Kamden Hilliard

Hong Kong Aubade

Nothing is Fast Enough Nothing

Hong Kong Aubade
above his crack of dawn: a tramp stomped sun       spreading the smallness

of his hard backing                   cast under the hungover light of an unfamiliar city

and after these assorted mistakes (beer, a dead phone)

i dont know his name     but   another day another collar     right?

he offers cereal and cream gone very bad       say-la-vee      he drawls in perfect american flatness

dull bowl bowing to his mouth         dull me done and bowed to his body

clawing that ocean of muscle       /       wave swelling to fist me

and NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY/SWIM AT OWN RISK       and i am

at own risk and i am without guard         people are only beautiful

until they teach you their terror           and his tutelage is impeccable

how else could he be this     big bad wolf?         how? without boys like me

drunk on spit and sand              riptiding       boys who read enough Crane

to know better       but still go         boys who dive even though the bottom of the sea is cruel

 

 

 

Nothing is Fast Enough Nothing

 

when she asks who is brian?   over shitty pop music

and all the things that predate tomorrow and its hangover

all i can say:   here’s a profile pic     and some stories

i dont know brian anymore     i know brian a few days ago

but all i know is whats in front of me   or what im inside

time has a way of making everything   unknown

 

when i leave my house   there is nothing to say my sister

wont pour cement down her throat

or let a rapist in

i know i sound neurotic

(all the thinking and mouth breathing)     but

now i understand brian and his motheaten heart

at least     why he liked radiohead and hatefucking

sight is a function of light     and light is always tardy

speedster:     top of the shitheap

 

so really when he said harder   he meant it

in all the ways         but hes still talking at a different dude

a different set of scars and legs a trillionth

of a light-year older already   those hungry eyes are always

late to my metaphorical table     the potatoes are cool (congealed

with butter) the pies have flies     but he still eats

still gorged with grin   with my dead skin cell and shadow

crusting his lips

 

 

 

Kamden Hilliard studies writing and educational psychology in New York. He succeeds. Sometimes. He is, among other things: recipient of fellowships from Callaloo and The Davidson Institute, a younger and older brother, contributor for Elite Daily, and an avid hiker. He tries to keep busy. He’s been a poetry editor at The Adroit Journal and other lovely places. His poems have appeared (or will appear) in Jellyfish Magazine, *82 Review, Bodega, Specter, and other dope locations. When Kamden isn’t thinking about language, he’s sleeping or being very dumb and very happy. Selected by Rochelle Hurt.

 

Image:

©Ian Shelly “Mistaken For Another–Seek Consultation”