Dustin Williamson

a little wet

I must admit I see light the destructive

shake of a single thigh reflected in

my shaking eyelash cuz we’re condition-

ed like Zack is in love so his hair

is conditioned here at last our tight

construction “lifting all boats” or

“lifting you back” as improper lifting

threw out my back on a path to Sun

Rise Foods walking only on the alley

flowers “those dismal moments hitting

you back” somewhere between a song

and real life and that’s not a fair way to

live an evening the tribulation

but who needs it, baby a strip of light

the ever earthy pen when I heard

a finger tapping through the wall on the

other side of the wall

but every time just for me

it’s that damn fleshy stitch a less dismal

moment appears in the drizzle

you guard the box against beat back

the sogginess yet through the bottom

a further demonstration of the ongoing

war between oil and water

working on this Milwaukee the great

third rate because we have so much

going on and it’s not like that at all

betting on which friend will get hit

by an equation first the international

consequence of light among the youth

a crusty moment they call “black lung”

for a reason do our homes protect us

from clerical danger way long ago

in a fire proof tent a calm moment

before the contagion

as a poker is reflected in Zack’s shaking

eyelids conditioned with betting on

this one or this one I must admit

to adding pulp to the filtered light

a proposition in the rain is just that, wet

the erotic moment of spitting

on the pavement to see her eyes

go just wide the course shifting in

the sand around the plastic ends of her

shoelaces is this what it’s like to

make no sound at all the meaningful

clear throat the noise needed to clear

the throat this is what it’s like to wish for

some crackle a poem written under

the dish water where it cuts my hands, so what—

so Al the lawn mower came to curtain

call without a costume to show she has

shape a convenience of some renown

call out to Apollo or the big D

a flagon full of cold medicine

tucked into the sock w/ rouge bits of shadow

sewn w/dismal little flowers waiting for

the garbage to bloom next to the

bus stop propositioning without asking

for a thing thinking “let’s get out of the

water” it was all around us, whale shit

if not the bridge, the bit soggy

A commercial break from the time

of our greatest importance

on the Locust Bridge,

a bag that you’ve run over

before realizing

there’s something inside

The onset of adult face

The sheer dog in the road-

ness of it Four wheel drive

through a caesura of chicken wings

Attention as a desperate calling

like a stripper in the margins

sheds dirty letters

down to an article Waiting

for an obscene phone call

or a bit of wind

To lift the bits of bag over the bridge

so the river can get back

to watching the 10 o’clock news

“which is my favorite program,

current events and all that”

Feet and cars pass in a freak

accident of dawn

which only shows as my reflection

of snowmobile tricks

over the SYD NEY HI building

(While in another city

your TV was for a second level

with my window on the METRA)

To be considered a vandal

tho the marks left

quickly dissolve in the current

on the way to Lake Michigan

To be soluble

going for groceries and never

coming back again

to fade,

that murmur and quieting focus

onward on pierce together

short on the year & asbestos/ must

mean I’m fire proof only part

of the year/ a mild force running

around the room/ or

hibernating during the passion/

play/ while Mexicans pull a coffin

down Center St./ even the Romans

spoke Spanish/ even the bears

wash their hands of this/ knowing

most of you are making other plans/

so I see out of the buttons/ on yr

western pearl buttons/ even then

I’m not buying flowers from the

guy/ selling flowers/ every night

in every bar on Center St./ on

the radio/ in the radio state/

outside of which the reception

gets less protective/ as the moment

gets more crowded/ in the Milwaukee

tree/ or sapling/ or Byzantine/ but

certainly not the Renaissance/ unless

the beam emanates from the forehead

of the girl that waits/ upon what—

the drink I’m not the verb of/ or am

the recipient of/ so what—

the weekend/ ends unsuccessfully

in a wax museum/ is this Peter

Lorre/ or just Karl in a bra/ but

I suppose we’re past/ mythologizing

even if I’m not/ & my life built around

sleep/ & that never lasts long enough/

knowing most of you are making/ other

plans/ this is what being feels like/

River Horse among all the engaged

girls/ I should know better/ over zeal-

ous/ perhaps if that means a mouth

gets full of a quantity/ all good

till the man/ with the man/ with

the tattooed face/ w/ flourish/

when addition/ looks obvious like

a sharpie pen/ all bouncing/ for what—

the bounce of some girl/ who’ll not be

going home tonight/ or clarified/

you are home tonight/ who’ll have

this type of antique workings/ for

the kind of sleeping/ that praises

Karl for necessity/ oh goody

Karl bought a new picture/ &

mean pitcher/ the wildness/ of what—

we are/ like the morning is closer for

you Yankees closer to the sun/ the

studded jacket won’t work for long/

& yr beard does/ not give you

the right/ to dance quite like that

the colonies break free again

A matter of what doesn’t turn out

despite the interest in toast

in the act of toast Which has

a larger fan base than you might

believe based on the crowd

which after all is just you

and a twist tie I forgot to

Even the CD player says good-bye

& there was a riot so it was raining hard

on the finger in my burrito

“to show I’m a bigger man, I’ll

just eat around it”

Of course the bridge to nowhere

ends in Bay View A bit of nowhere

I don’t mind being driven to

waiting to fall into a good time

worrying what’s at the top of

any building A patch of land

we cannot land upon & “I smell

the bleach on my hands”, which is

obviously different than saying “my

hands smell like bleach” My fished

fingers in the tee-shirt weather

Pretending not to chew the laces

The floor which pretends the ice is not

chewed Along “they shake the neck

as such” The tightness of a spot

Swept aside In the present company

Passed half sounds The damaged

physical weight Naked in the garage

The strung-tennis-ball against

the forehead Far enough in

to not crush the kids’ bikes

Or a repetition of an earlier sound

in both ears stuck in the act of

minimizing a hair cut An orange

picked apart under the table with

O those pertinent nails When you’re

saying it was a good time,

you’re forgetting how we felt then