It finally sank through the skin: the unrecognizable cubes
with the men in uniform standing guard, the mirroring of
bad ideas from state to state, the force of frightened greetings
reaches across Sunday porches, "this is America calling:"
a chord of parallel wires murmuring gossip so malicious &
almost-true, you feel self conscious the rest of your days.
"If it's gonna' be like this, lets' leave!" they agree, so the slow
raft-ride embarks down the scenic canal. Little by little,
the sinister hum & flickering screen of useless heroics
seem as a dumb joke recalled nostalgically in summer air.
& as they cast out lines for perch or walleye, passing
Omaha & penned-up pigs on the banks beside
the monoliths, glimmering with their many ads to help
pay for the reconstruction, the houses doze & seem to wonder
what is escaping. Dreams fly in arcs from the rising smoke;
& this was all for them: a splinter to pick one's teeth with,
a pleasant stink rising from their shirts & a few scrappy memories
lingering above like hungry gulls. Thus each particular
chimed curiously, & there was nothing to learn or do,
as a hazy sky bore the pilgrims through the empire.
Their new perspective pleased all of us, watching them
like players in a dollhouse, they who, facing the stars,
became impeccably blank & ripe for projection
into the partially designed stage set of our longings,
gradually sliding from cloud to cloud, becoming ghosts
in a pasture that absorbs them, and then us, into
its embrace. But they fit a little too easily
into the script. It seemed too much tranquility
to swallow at once, & gradually the need for excitement
worked its way to the prow, until they docked beneath
the twinkling archway, a little bored and tired of fish,
& strolled down the arcade to the open-air theater
where men on stilts juggled glass eyeballs & home appliances
duelled in a bumper car ring, while a bearded man
in a yellow dress kept score. The Hoover was the major player
in that circle, but elsewhere loomed the Moonwalk Room
& the miniature cranes encased in glass with
the cranks beneath with which you could retrieve
condoms & stolen watches, if you had enough finesse.
There was a short period of adjustment, sure,
but soon they were screaming with the other kids,
calling for stiffer kamikazes, more salt-water taffy
& the funnel-cakes they puked down from roller-coasters.
A million manners of forgetfulness pressed in on them
through the neon, fevers of meaning, sharp gortesqueries
flattering their humble origins, until we too became
naturalized with the ticketstub & a box of Karmelcorn.
There's that moment when the sp[rings are coiled
with their maximm tension & pleasure, when a backdraft
blows from the ecstasy as disheartening as the peak was high.
For a moment, the stage is silent. Then a tired voice tells
the adrift, "move along." The raft pulls away from its magic.
The land eventually pulls away, & the residue of spaciousness
is a bleeding light fingering clouds. It is necessary to
include everything-necessary & impossible. Thus
the story always lacks contrast, & the print fades from
the papers in their piles. So the carnival turns away,
grinding & chopping toward the next line of customers,
& features of this instant too, duped again
by the pormises of duration, find a place as formed
& capable as the crescendo.
©Copyright Matt Miller