Robert Burgan

Veteran Poet - 1,275 Points (Chicago)

The Pop - Poem by Robert Burgan

The sound of the pop is when you hear your head get pulled out of your ass
Then and only then can you see life for its true beauty
Every blade of grass, every drop of dew on the leaves every microcosm dancing through an open field
Like Mikey-with shrapnel on his heels.

He watched his grandfather get pick-axed apart by cancer
It opened up a void sized hole in his chest, his insides were revealed
The same guy who used to run over squirrels for fun was sitting on the side of a bed
Trying to pump life back into the body of someone he loved
He was the antagonist
Turning into the helpless protagonist
Shocked, yelling “CLEAR, CLEAR” his heart began to beat the second he saw him cease to exist
He heard the pop
Louder than a bottle rocket, louder than a sonic boom
It wasn’t a test siren on the first Tuesday of the month it was the real deal
He plucked his heart strings in order to change his tune.

I heard the pop for the first time in 2002
The echo of a gunshot rolled through my skull like a freighter
Whistle blowing
Change came with the morning sun that rose like a pizza crust….slowly
This was my first encounter with loss since my baby teeth came out
It was like the string attached to the doorknob-I was the open mouth
We’re all born as wounds
Stitched up countless times
No matter how well we heal the scar remains visible on the outside
We’re all invisible to ourselves on the inside, don’t know where to start
Until we connect the scrapes and scars and build a path toward who we are

Our hearts are graveyards
Our minds are urns
We get in line to swim in youthful fountains it seems like I'm the only one who chose to skip my turn
The more I age the stronger my structure gets
Life is a chiropractor cracking my back to release the gas in it
We experience accidents, we need adjustments to straighten out the spine before we cut the chord
Sink or swim, either way we’ll wash up on the shore
Our legs are drifters
Our arms are hosts
Our emotions are platforms we dive off of
Our thoughts are ghosts
They wander
Sometimes they’re seen sometimes they don’t exist
You don’t know me but I’ll admit I’ve done some evil shit
When I heard the pop in ’02 and again in 20-10
My eardrums busted open like a floor tom with a worn out skin
I’ve worn sin on my sleeves like cuff links
Regrets on my chest like stripes
I’ve been the brightest morning I’ve been the pitch black midnight

The lines between the crowds of blurs are high definition plasma screens
Each individual has been injected with color and drawn blueprints for their daily dreams
The crowds of faceless specs have yet to hear the pop
Once it fills the aimless body the hand stops shaking and the evilness stops
Once you hear the pop you see life in a different way
I bet you're wondering, 'hey Robert, what do you know about the pop? '
Well, I hear it every day.

Topic(s) of this poem: learning

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Maya Angelou

Caged Bird

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, December 8, 2015

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