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JOHN MOST |
Lake Urbana
The puzzled rain softened the negligent
ground that let go of the root ball of the black oak that
one-eyed Napoleon had seen when he touched her for the first time. There, on
the bank.
Or whomever,
Michael Jackson, Franz Ferdinand, Boris Yeltsin, Joan of Arc. Before she
quivered, flakes of mustard tobacco got caught up in the resolute wind that
applauded the
unmerciful props backstage, the telephone, the pistol, the helicopter, the
parasol, which, when
their time came, bombed the yellow jackets with rotten fruit procured from the
ribs of the fake
atmosphere that enveloped the lake that hid the city. The
city.
Prettier than Absalom’s hair.
Is it
aisles of extravagant blacktop troubled by immense branches of importunate
traffic,
phaeton, Hyundai, chariot,
corridors of wretched commerce crowded with porphyry statues, alien images, desultory
conversations.
You still overhear her name or find her in sagging excess,
replicas laboriously manufactured day
in day out. In sustenance in crude misconceptions or in
preposterous nature.
The Three Musketeers
A sui generis mammoth clock
grovels in front of the impasse, nonplussed
peddlers paste three thousand forms to an
iridescent rock slide—a listless lagoon is
the specter of earth’s desert island or a pose
is pathology. So eavesdroppers,
please,
just utensil it all while watching
shirtless dwarves tether magenta
piglets together since a fluke is a bubble, a reservoir
is an orgy, a plenitude is a test
pilot
calling in a predicament:
the alphabet praised the refulgent cock
the balloon socked
the polka dot
The
Visitors
Cups of trees capitulate, arguments
are temporal. This that is a foretaste
of jolly principles, undiscussed habits,
too late
potatoes, the sly, boisterous laughs
hiding in ornament—gently
walk, look, smile
from blip beep buzz
to callous familiarity, from generic
anxieties to immeasurable proximity
from when now was frigid to where
then is schismatic
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