THIS IS A POEM ABOUT SUMMER 6.1.17

6.1.17

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. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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