Finally Smelling Fall

from Perfect Sleeping Weather by Larry Fulford

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Scrawled into notebooks from the familiar comforts of temporary homes and the passenger seats of mechanically unsound vehicles adrift on the highways and back roads of America, Perfect Sleeping Weather is fifteen years of thoughts, observations, facts, and fictions hammered into a collection of poetry that, according to one reader, "sounds like a sigh."

In this, his first book, writer/drummer/comedian Larry Fulford reflects on the usual -- life, death, love and leaving -- while still managing to name-check Van Halen. Twice.

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lyrics

It’s getting cooler and I’m hallucinating,
not the change in weather
but the shadows that suggest
there’s someone behind me.

The slightest movement has set her dog off.
Now I have no idea what she’s thinking:
a burglar masked in black face paint
come to bark open the dog
and creak open the gate?

Waking up a second-story exhibitionist
who’s standing in the window offended.

Again I see shadows
and tell myself,
“It’s just the trees.”

That kind of silence that envelopes everything,
even air itself,
is sweeping over me.

I can’t speak
‘cause I don’t want to scare myself.
I can’t move
‘cause I don’t want to do something wrong.

In this sort of quiet
even ghosts hold their breath.

I hear the metallic drip of my car going to sleep —
unless that’s actually the sound
of a bored ghost
tapping on still parts under the hood
biding his time until —

“It’s just the trees.”

That goddamned dog is probably still barking
unaware that outside
darkness has devoured everything.
And the burglar she thought she heard is walking,
holding his breath,
while I clutch a winter pain in my chest;
an indicator species
at the end of a summer rope
fixing myself a slipknot scarf.