Me or my
Surrogate, a game
Like a berry’s bush aflame
With all the world’s halls
Empires emblazoned like lame
Ducks going out
For the long one, just human, we’re just human
That’s all
Like gourds along the road
Ripe with emotion
Limiting ourselves to sharp angles
And broad strokes
Like bored storks, cleaning up our clockwork
Is like going home empty-handed, empty
Or at least without an idea
Of how to behave properly.
Yes, you’re right, I have never forgotten
Exactly how to imagine the world becoming
A smooth, glassy siphon
And sucking itself out into
Something restrained, it has become, a well-crafted game like
Bass fishermen going nuts
Getting creative on our asses
Getting their butt’s out of heaven’s way
And weighting it down like
Overblown cannon, outdated mongrel
I have nothing left to vent about
This language is suddenly inaccessible
Just because it’s starlight doesn’t mean it is not soft
Like loaves of broken stardust
We arrange our bodies into strange envelopes and ship them
(It is not over, it is not even past
The past, that is, like a thermostat on a ledge
A collegiate athlete reaches for sunscreen
And he’s found the ground again, a whole
Shipyard of these strange characters
Not believing that anything is wrong
It’s just the culture, it’s all the culture)
If you worship the broken sunbeam,
Something is bound to alleviate
All the pain within
That pain which
Opens doors and clothes the urban poor; that rain which pokes
Its head out of the door
As if it’s saying good morning,
I had not realized I had spoken,
The morning laughter revisited,
All over again.
Gallons of dross
Poured onto the cement in hopes
Of some clever elves arriving
(at half-passed noon
Our half-amassed crooning
Has awakened our interiors and
Bespeckled disaster like Midnight!
Time’s up!)
These rolling peninsulas just unroll
Sometimes
Like clowns creating quiet
In the dark noobs of their own quiescent closets
Hoping for a stranger to linger
Or lend an arm, shop, laundry bin
Artichokes laundering themselves before mealtime;
Dusty helmets meet the breeze;
Forget about this:
Drake character, you’ve met before;
Spirits loitering like celery paper
Scribbling in intangible vegetables letters
Messages you had already received but not opened, not read, not cared about
Everything you had hope for
In a breed of crazed zombies
One type is right
The left-footed booby traps of
Nathaniel Hawthorn heritage
Opening toilet lids and pooping until
There is no tomorrow
But there always is, and it comes
ONE DAY
ATTA TURK
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