In the morning] from my balcony
I can see] in the absence of three eucalyptus trees
the scorched and lifeless grass
of summer] the color of urine
and of festering wounds] and
this is the grass not the summer
that I am describing.
The summer terrifies even the bravest
me. I have tried to outmaneuver the summer]
but every left turn I make I feel I make
directly into a wall] and to my right is nothing]
and behind me is the summer] or a summer]
and in front of me is another summer]
unforgiving] unspeakable like a dirty word] O!
how I am afraid of that word! In the evening]
outside my window is Cornell Ave] where
sometimes the hoofs of horses
pound like math against the dirt]
creating yellow mist in twilight
conditions. Aside from horses
there are cars] and inside those cars
are people smiling for no reason I
can discern] blissfully unaware of summer.
Written at 10:09 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, after a day spent at Disneyland, which day was actually a wonderful experience. This poem has nothing to do with Disneyland or today. This poem is not even a poem. I used brackets instead of commas for fuck’s sake because I suspect there is some unattended urge inside me to be thought of as “hip” or “cutting-edge” when really all I am is confused, and slightly turned on by poetry.