Succumb

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

Arms crossed, head toppled right
against the seatbelt, a sort of makeshift pillow
that might break my clavicle and save my life.

I gazed out into Texas as though it were on
the other side of the glass at an aquarium
and it was understood: all the fish were dead.

From the long-dry riverbeds and sky lid
keeping God from ever seeing
what’s gone so wrong with this,
I looked down, at where “down” still meant “out,”
— down and out, I guess —
and appeared further than I was.

Still, I could see the lines in the corner of the eyes
and the garden of beard being invaded by weeds of white.

I was a stranger — a sailor
10 million miles from any anchor
but the barnacles began to show.

These roads connect the dots
into constellations shaped like whatever
might represent love and love lost.
A train depot, maybe.
A dying grandmother cradling a newborn baby.
A diamond ring down a kitchen sink.

Never quite sure what we’re running from,
but eventually we all succumb.
Like father, like son.