the sunglasses. the obvious high obscured.
it’s all anyone can see. you can talk
and talk, about music, and the tour going
so smoothly, but it’s what no one says,
the quiet around it. prolonged sedation,
boring its way through opened arms.
there are three different ways that being shot
(in the head, no less)
comes up in conversation. to speak
is to render something visible, to make a film
of it. what draws the eye is not what should--
someone mentions Gigi Allen’s suicide
and the whole room laughs.
Born and raised in Hartwood, Virginia, Sean Patrick Conlon grew up in a house that was
once a Civil War hospital, and was believed to be haunted. As a boy, Sean lifted up the
rug to show his friends where the blood from wounded soldiers had stained the wooden
floorboards. Now, he writes poems.