Banging on the keys of an ancient Remington
you try to craft poems immune to dissection
yanking words letter by letter like teeth
from your own River Styx . . . the boatman quietly urging his Evinrude
with yelps from the middle of an estuary
igniting the survivalist in weekend L. L. Beaners
stringing franks alphabetically across a fire pit . . .
They make the six-o-clock news . . .
Does this help? . . . I mean . . . what is it? . . .
I mean are you ready to dazzle with a minor French ditty
within walking distance of the Arc de Triomphe
the flight over . . . scrambled . . . lowercase letters
with smartphones gag-ordered? . . .
Odysseyites living in yurts in the 'Dacks . . . undergo drawbridges . . .
drop blurbs like bread crumbs . . . invent metaphors
for trees whose bent limbs backstory crepey skin . . .
I'm with you all the way . . . though truth be told . . . I'm having a blast . . .
though I couldn't think of a proper go-between
so the induced quail from his poem was summoned . . .
You seem unaware of your whereabouts . . .
the voices from the air as loud as a triage of cats . . . soliloquies
with ancient cuneiform symbols kayaking with ice bats
which Carson . . . superstarishly influential enough
to assume the mantle of dabbler . . . was quick to say don't exist . . .
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| Mario Sorrenti |
