In the strip mall Chinese restaurant, you tell me
you will step on the soil of many countries, you will marry in a year
& regret it. The person who held you is suddenly miles away.
Covering your body in self-adhesive, 39 cent stamps
licked by the ghost of Freddie Mercury
whipped by the zebra of Slim Whitman
& his famous painting of Dali singing "Like a Virgin"
this is a place poem.
this is a poem about the geography of distance.
this poem is a nauseating horizon strewn with mackerel dropped from the talons of seahawks.
or maybe I'm just overreacting
to my failing to not know what you don't mean
because omniscience can be pretty terrible sometimes
and if not terrible, then at least somewhat terrifying
--because right now, I feel like
dancing
with my heartsick pantomine. This steady hand
types this as you speak:
This pattern you are in is empty today
but listen Baby, I have designs on you
that no one would ever care to read about.
The umpire's unholy regard
& how he manages restraint
brown sauce a sticky matrix, wandering fingers dumbfound
Isn't there someone you could call
—a tree or something.