thinking – Kevin Trent Boswell

Silence is Aluminum

They say it’s gold, but
I don’t actually own much gold

I do, however, have many things
That are made out of aluminum

Most of my furniture is aluminum frame,
The bookshelves, front of the refrigerator,
The handles of my cooking utensils

I have a lot of silence

Sure, I watch movies and YouTube videos
I read, listen to music, have friends over

But I have a lot of silence

Why? Because it’s easier

It’s easier than dealing with people
People who think it’s cool to be rude
People with impossible standards,
Standards that everyone is supposed to
Live up to… except them

It’s much easier than trying to date,
Only to be used for food,
Validation of her ego, then ghosted, and
Offered up as an unwilling sacrifice for
TikTok rage content and lies told over
Spilled tea

All because I refused to be a wet doormat,
And that… THAT makes me a monster

But in my aluminum Fortress of Solitude,
No one expects me to be a mind reader

The only mind I need to read is mine
And I can do that quietly,
Without anyone yelling at me,
Nagging me, belittling me in public,
Belittling me in private, or
Giving me backhanded compliments

Aluminum doesn’t weaponize
The things I say to it in confidence

Al, atomic number 13
Doesn’t self-sabotage just because
It felt unworthy of being mine

Aluminum is strong
It doesn’t corrode

It’s electrically conductive,
So, you might even say
It has a sort of emotional intelligence

It is both willing and able to move signals
From Point A to Point B,
Instead of secretly harboring resentment
For months or years

Aluminum doesn’t send mixed signals

Aluminum is non-magnetic
So, it doesn’t let strangers come in
And use it when I’m at work

It doesn’t blame me
Because I was too busy working
To give it the constant, whirlwind of
Narcissistic attention that it craved

It’s recyclable, so you could say that,
Instead of blaming you
For its own feelings of emptiness,
It has the capacity to learn and
Change its shape

It’s adaptable

Aluminum can’t exactly grow,
But it provides a stable base for growth

I have living plants sitting on
My aluminum desk by the window

Aluminum is cold, but
I can heat it up very quickly

And it cools down quickly, too;
It doesn’t hold on things

So, I don’t get surprise burns,
Thinking, “Surely it must have
“Cooled off by now.”

Aluminum is so reliable and lightweight
That they use it in the stuff they
Launch humans into space with

It doesn’t collapse and give in
At the first signs of stress

If the aluminum items in my place
Should break, then I know that
I was the problem

If I was the problem, then ⠀
I can fix the problem⠀⠀

With aluminum, ⠀
I don’t have to wait ⠀
For an iron leopard ⠀
To change its rusty spots

If my things are broken, then I obviously
Put too much stress on them,
I put too much weight on them,
Or I moved them back and forth too much

I can’t remember the last time
Something broke around here

But if it did, there’s a certain peace
In knowing whose fault it was,
Knowing that there’s some kind of a
Genuine lesson, something I can learn,
So it simply doesn’t happen again

The same cannot be said
For the outside world
With all of its fickle children

Aluminum is not addicted to chaos

Aluminum is not addicted to dopamine

If something breaks,
There’s no existential angst,
No sitting and wondering,
“Maybe if I had said this? Or done that?
“Or if I hadn’t done that other thing?”

Aluminum is a kind, loving 7

It’s not a 4 ounce hunk of entitled lead
That swears it’s 10 ounces of gold

It’s not 9 ounces of copper
That hates itself and truly believes
It’s only 3 ounces of mercury

Aluminum foil is spread thin every day,
But it doesn’t complain

It’s a team player

It doesn’t have constant, never-ending
Emotional outbursts that
I’m not even allowed to try to help solve

It doesn’t say the opposite of what it means

It doesn’t scream,
“Stop looking at me! Stop talking to me!⠀
“What are you, some kind of creep?!”⠀

It doesn’t scream,
“Oh, my god! Why won’t you look at me?!
“Why won’t you talk to me?! Grow a pair!
“What are you, gay?!”

Instead, it smiles and says,
“I’m happy you’re home. I missed you.
“Let’s cook dinner together. Then, we’ll
“Lie in bed, cuddle, and watch our show.”

Silence is solid, reliable,
Sturdy, trustworthy
Aluminum

It’s cheap, easy to manufacture,
Easy to maintain

Rather than blame me
For not being able to afford diamonds,
Gold, silver, mahogany, or marble,
Aluminum says, “We got this, babe.
“We don’t need anything but each other.”

Empires are built on aluminum

Aluminum is loyal

It doesn’t walk away for selfish,
Trivial reasons

Aluminum is helpful and nurturing

It quietly says, “Let me take your coat.
“Here, set your things down and rest.
“Lie down on me and let me soothe you.”

It doesn’t pout;
It’s just patiently, contentedly silent

It doesn’t compete with me
Or bait me into arguments
Or wait until I’m feeling proud of myself,
To insert the perfectly-timed,
Most embarrassing and devastating
Passive-aggressive jab
To take all the air out of my balloon

Aluminum says, “Relax. Breathe.
“You’re safe here with me.”

I don’t want anyone
To bring me a table

I already have
A perfectly good aluminum table

All I might ever need is for someone to
Bring something to my table

Something like, oh, I don’t know,
Maybe… good conversation, love,
Emotional support, kindness, respect,
Some graceful feminine energy,
Manners, a hot meal, a cheerleader spirit?

Nah, nobody hears that “crazy talk”

It’s way too loud out there
In the asphalt jungle
With all the steel girders and
Glass ceilings

But it’s nice and quiet in here

Sitting in aluminum silence is preferable
To allowing cruel people into my domain,
People who say horrendous things
That offend, wound the ego, and
Make you ask yourself, “What would
“Possess a person to believe this is
“How you should treat others?”

People who respond with a dismissive,
“You’re too sensitive.”

Rather than,
“I’m such an awful, mean-spirited toddler
“That my terrible behavior shocked you.”

I’d rather lie on my comfortable mattress,
On the aluminum bed frame,
And watch movies, or read, or sit in a

Peaceful

Aluminum

Silence

Don’t Read This Poem

You don’t want to read this poem
Because it doesn’t conform to your view
Hell, it barely matches my own
So, it might not appeal to you

To enjoy this, you’d have to be able
To challenge your beliefs and behaviors
It doesn’t confirm preconceptions
And it’s utterly devoid of saviors

In this poem, I’m not the champion
It holds up no heroes to idolize
Neither does it have evil villains
There’s no money, sex, gossip, or lies

It asks only that we be better people
That’s all that it does… that’s it
And this is why it stings my pride
And why most will say that it’s shit

You have been warned, if you read this
You may regret some choices you’ve made
You might question some of your actions
Or feel bad about the part that you played

So, don’t even read the first line
That’s how you find yourself in a pickle
Next thing you know, you’re wondering
If you’ve been cruel, selfish, or fickle

Before we start asking tough questions
Ones that show just how we’ve been slack
Before we lose our ability to play Victim
Let’s not read this… and never look back

But You Can’t Say It

Sometimes, you know the real reason,
But you still can’t be the one to say it
You know well why they did the thing,
But it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all

It must come from within, in its season
On some level, they know but won’t admit
The canary’s mouth closed; it will not sing
And Van Gogh’s ear refuses the call

By themselves, they’ll have to figure it out
No matter how obvious it may be to you
If you spell it all out, simple and plain
They’ll only reject it as a selfish ploy

Some fall deep into the well of doubt,
Won’t do what the heart most wants to do
They’ll forge on ahead, no matter the pain
Things that love, and are loved, destroy

Avert the eyes of the face in the mirror,
Admitting mistakes, the need to change,
They’ll rake themselves over hot coals
To keep everyone happy, all but the self

Unless it cuts deep, so they feel it clearer
Regardless of how unnecessarily strange
They’ll stick to expired, worn-out goals
Try not to look at the dreams on the shelf

You want so badly to explain it in detail
You know their truth even better than they
If they’d only admit it, they’d be satisfied
You want to scream, draw them a diagram

If you say it for them, your intentions fail
Suspicious of the things you do and say
Fear, manipulations; you must have lied
Some play the willing sacrificial lamb

It’s easier to suffer in miserable silence
Than admit what it is they want the most
Swallow feelings, cause no one displeasure
Love is expensive; it’s cheaper to scream

And their beautiful vision dies in violence
While they suffer daily as drudgery’s host
Twist in boredom’s unhappy full measure
Hold the anchor and let go of the dream

Sweat

To strive with the burden
Of what the next hours might bring

To have wrestled daily
With the fear of losing life

To be saddled with the dread
That there may be
Some indeterminate sentence
Of interminable, inescapable life
That one is somehow
Condemned to endure

To flounder helplessly
In the drowning pool
That sits between
These two feverish fits of delirium

To have drunk the madman’s wine,
That laced broth which inspires
And conjures those horrid devils
Known as fear, hope,
And love

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Under Your Feet

Author’s Note: Yesterday, I learned that someone passed away in my apartment building (presumably within a day or so of when I heard about it). I had never met them and they hadn’t been living here long at all. Their death was apparently not unexpected; I was told that they were in poor health before they ever arrived here.

The weird thing is, they lived in the apartment right below mine. But stranger still, I had occupied that apartment myself, up until just a few months ago. When my current unit became available, I took the opportunity to move because it’s quieter on the top floor. While I don’t think I ever met the tenant, it was a brisk reminder that death is never far away.

Death is right under your feet
But try to put it out of your mind
There are chores to do and
Demands to meet
So, try putting it out of your mind

Death is coming up behind you
It is wise to not make a stink of it
Since you cannot stop it, and
There’s nothing you can do,
It’s best to try and not think of it

There beside you, Death hovers
I suggest you pretend not to notice
It will pounce on nervousness,
Any weakness it discovers,
So, just casually appear not to notice

It may approach you from any angle
You are bold, but Death is much bolder
You can tell it’s there by the cold, stale air
That envelopes your throat to strangle
Death patiently perches on your shoulder

roads

once, the roads all lay
wide open before us,
turning in hundreds of
different directions,
taking people on magical journeys
to numberless destinations,
along magnificent trails
of gorgeous scenery

yes, there were always
a few dead ends, here and there, but
one could always
turn around

you could backtrack,
without experiencing
too much anxiety
over lost time

you’d happen upon
interesting choices,
unmarked intersections,
where there was
no signage
to help you navigate
your way

it was all
up to you

choose your own adventure,
twist-a-plot, flip a coin,
“eeny, meanie, miney, moe;
my mother told me this way…
and you… are… not… it”

and so, you’d set down a path,
with guesses, hopes, and fears,
but no real way of knowing
what was up ahead

it was all an exciting gamble

you might meet your death
but, you might find treasure,
fame, or perhaps,
unravel a mystery

“once there was a way
to get back homeward.”

see? Paul knew the deal.

but now,
the roads have all
narrowed

many of them,
if not most,
are blocked off |||||
completely impassible

storms have knocked down trees,
barring the way

some roads are blocked by protesters

many streets are just
too full of potholes

you can’t drive down them without
wrecking your vehicle

all the roads,
even the dirt ones,
are littered with toll booths,
every half a mile

insane fees extracted like teeth

the “protection money”
extortions of gangsters
looks like chump change
in comparison;
third-graders,
threatening to beat you up
for your milk money

half the available highways
have fallen too far into disrepair;
you can’t walk down them,
for fear of stepping in a hole,
breaking your ankle

of the remaining roads,
those still open and drivable,
the traffic is maddening

each thoroughfare
congested with vehicles,
all belching exhaust, and
piloted by madmen,
caught up in the throes of
full blown road rage

too many cars,
even though the travelers
on all of these roads
already know…

there’s nothing
at the end
of any of these highways;
nothing they’d actually want,
anyway

the obsession is no longer
“where are we going?”

it’s now
“how long can we keep driving,
before we run out of gas?”

we no longer worry about
how long it will take us
to get there, because
we know…

there’s nowhere to go

now, we just try to lose ourselves
in the experience of the drive,
desperately trying to forget
why we ever got into the vehicle
in the first place

we no longer
ask ourselves why we
even have a vehicle

such questions would only
cause us to think about
what is at the end of these
endless roundabouts, and
dirt paths, running through
fruitless orchards,
as far as the eye can see

asphalt and concrete
conveyor belts,
mindlessly herding us
through the turnstiles
and metal guide-rails
of urban slaughterhouses

what was so important?
that we had to build these
heartless machines?

pay all these tolls?

deal with all these
crazy people,
rudely plowing ahead
in all these ugly boxes?

and, more importantly,
if whatever it was…

isn’t even there,
anymore…

then,
why the hell
are we still
out here?

why are we
still on
these

tacky footpaths,
made of gauche steppingstones,
leading only to the madhouses

these dry, dead riverbeds
where five out of every ten tankers
are beached, or rudderless

three more of them are sinking

and one more has been pulled over,
by the police

only one out of every ten vessels
on our peculiar, asphalt rivers
is in good working condition,
and sailing on nicely

and, even that one
still lacks any sense of
where it’s headed

what fever is this,
that overtakes us,
compelling us to pursue these

godforsaken
freeways
of the damned

infinite trails of
tamed wilderness
that lead to
absolutely
nowhere

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remission, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell

The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell