Dillon Seckington
He Thinks
He knows that he is smart and scientific.
But he is used to tobacco spit and the high-
speed deer chase; ears ringing in the back of a muddy pickup.
The boy thinks he knows that he did nothing wrong.
Yet he yearns for the blonde buzz of a pocket,
Picked by herself, who he thinks he knows.
The boy thinks he knows that he is known.
But the boy thinks he feels alone
At 3 a.m., bandaged by duct tape and Budweiser.
The boy thinks he knows that he will never
go home. But he is salt to snow,
Liquid and coursing; melting to the bone.
The boy thinks he knows that he is rhythm and rhyme.
Still he is saltine without missing
And longing; a whale up for air.
The boy thinks he knows that he is a man.
But he is only legs, only length and lips and lungs
Grasping for the cold air; mothered and unkissed by sunlight.
He Knows
That she is the multicolor
cloudy summer sky comfort.
Soothingly wild, he thinks.
The boy knows he is an artist
restless in the right ways and unwilling.
He thinks.
The boy’s mother knows
that she has a son, to nurture,
to live through. She thinks.
The boy knows in her drunken night
she was preyed upon with vanity.
Smiling grimace for weeks, he thinks.
The boy knows that the secondary father
is a guide away from the fear of becoming.
Another withering leaf on a crooked tree he thinks.
The boy knows that death is the realest
part of life, but the great nothingness
washes over him, in the sky, he thinks.
The boy knows that he thinks
too much without doing. Instead,
he thinks.
The boy knows a girl. The girl does not
know the boy so he runs and runs
to her out of fear. He thinks.
Dear Frozen Raindrop, dear fentanyl
It snowed on Wednesday morning, I thought it was beautiful.
Until I heard the news, and the snowflakes turned to tears melting and running
down my palms and forearms. Until I heard it was about that problem
we used to have, I guess yours never got better.
I wanted to hate my mother when she said,
“Sadly, I saw this coming.”
She saw you in the store a week ago.
The store that she works at
so I can afford to write this poem.
I chose Starbucks and student loans
over cornfields and cowboy boots.
I chose shin splints and having to spit
because that’s what runners do?
Disrespectfully dissociated, I listen to my music
while you talk over it and at me.
I don’t hear a word you say, is it bad that I don’t care?
About who’s dating who and who
cried at the bar last night. I guess I did hear some of it.
I wish I was still that kid who got excited about things
that have no business being exciting. Like car rides
and going anywhere but home
and talking to girls on a tracfone,
my wealth was measured in minutes.
Mouths
Full of tobacco, spit hate, spit bad names onto my face.
They lie on faces I’ve known since the good old days,
When I hung on cold orange rims, while they chanted my name.
If this is God’s Country,
Then where the hell is Hell?
Now one side tilts upright on sight –
the yellow tint on deceit makes unease set in.
Look at my jeans, ask me who I voted for.
If this is God’s Country,
Then where the hell is Hell?
It's a shame that we all can’t get along.
But the mouth only speaks what it’s taught,
and the ears only hear what they want.
If this is God’s Country,
Then where the hell is Hell?
Time
-
A quick river running between man and mind.
-
Scraping every inch of everything.
-
Whistling steam.
-
A glaring woman across the bar.
-
Four fourths of living.
-
An unnoticed letter lost in the mail.
-
Nothing at all.
-
The shriek after a last second field goal.
-
Never without.
-
In between every tick and lip lick.
-
That time I was asleep in your rapids.
-
That time.
-
Money.
-
Wasted, forgotten, forfeited.
-
Until you are.
-
A mother.
-
9 months of baby bump.
-
The way that the imagination crumbles over.
-
Until you are not.
-
A coffin.
-
Smelling the flowers spent.
-
Remembering sounds.
-
Six gunshots.
-
In the end, God.
Bio
Dillon Seckington is a senior at UCM studying creative writing and digital media production. Dillon is Co-Editor-in-Chief of Arcade, as well as an award winning journalist as opinions and features editor of UCM’s Muleskinner. When he’s not working on projects or schoolwork, Dillon enjoys writing poetry, photography, and playing guitar.