which is broken, of the soul
which is broken, of the cracked
indistinguishable persona
which is cracked and broken,
everyone wanting, everyone falling asleep
and to everyone who is cracked,
no sneakers can help you,
not their rubber, not their rubber,
not a knowledge of smallness or
wish to be covered. It is
callous to say there are a thousand
spotted owls and only one of me.
Maybe it's stupid to say such things
about extinction. Birds were falling
from the sky and this pornographer
I know was running around talking
about an angle I don't feel comfortable
mentioning. Maybe in a way I'm a
prude, and he says you know people
they're people. A Polish couple precise
with their memory and a junkie
with a tiny bit of etiquette. I fell
asleep on the pasalla. I was weak
taking off. Someone put my loafers
to the side, and the waves, only the wealthy
can afford such waves. Cuban cigars. You know,
some of the greatest men never had vacations.
I wrote PASCAL IN CANCUN. A boring book,
I admit, but that part where the girls
start rocking their heads back and forth.
That part where the sun just washes
over her forehead, and then a cheek
and then another and then the first again, etc.
That's all I cared about, but explain that
to a publisher. One rocky sea and the water
just splashes out of its glass. "Fantastic."
"Fantastic." Do it again cry the children.
I'm cracked. I'm done. I'm as a bell. I'm
aboard these rubber sneakers bound for destruction.
So, my little ones, next time you see me
coming by, scream out "die" "die" "die"
then you'll have fantastic.
by Joshua Beckman (b. 1971)
