Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Poem: Exacta


All those things you say you are.
Perambulate. Pick a number.

I love you in spite of them.
Circumnavigate. Spin the wheel.

Nothing but shorthand, corporate logos.
Resuscitate. Roll the dice.

Bought a book to do your thinking.
Cogitate. Flip a coin.

In a cornfield of thirty-sevens and
fifty-fours, you select a
one, a zero, a one, a zero,
entire subdivisions in Navajo white,
twenty-one identical pairs of
blue jeans, forty waist, thirty leg.

Leo wanted his room as
deep a blue as one could find.
Mom was willing to go as
far as sky.

The pilot empties the gas tank,
waits till the last second.
The plane crashes in the courtyard,
setting the apartments ablaze.
No one dies.

The police chief declares
divine intervention, putting a
formidable discount on
the Japanese tsunami.

Everything happens for a reason.
If it doesn’t, we must force a
reason upon it, like a
mustard lid on a mayonnaise jar.

Chance is an ice cube down the
back, a drymouthed call to
mortality. Show it to the door.

A fighter pilot sits at the
patio table, parachute rising
from his shoulders in an orange cloud.
He offers a weary smile.

Sorry about this.
Could you call a paramedic?
Oh, and a cup of
coffee would be brilliant.

From the collection Fields of Satchmo
Photo by MJV (artwork by Nina Koepcke)

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