Andrew Hamilton - Poetry

Tony Hawk 900

by Andrew Hamilton

Grip tape of this skateboard,

decked out with bearings, bolts,

and wheels are visible light

scraping rails with the rake

of our sun-bleached moon.

Tell me, Tony, how can it be?

That I dream in this spectrum,

and so do you, gliding down

glass ramps of nervous circuits.

Rapid eyes are half-asleep

in zones disintegrating time.

Tricks are malleable as clay.

Your body soars airborne

and spins me abandoned,

scaling the darkest ladders

of deep space, unhinged,

and pulsing to the rhythm

of ancient wavelengths—

where gamma rays strobe

down the rungs of your spine,

nine hundred frames rendered

at the blind speed of sight.