Gleesh
I’ll never shake that bit in Perloff on
Pound and nominals. His first names,
names of towns, cake-shops, unglossed,
cut sharp, that textured his jagged poems.
I read that years ago. Now I know better.
Perloff’s old-hat, Pound’s a quack,
and modernism’s dead. But nominals are real.
My life’s a hoard of them. Nothing has form
and is all texture and surface. I don’t remember
what things mean or how they feel but see
oily fingerprints on everything. Everything’s a meme.
Me and Smoothie in the Cartosai on Ponca
bumping “Umma Do Me” on Saturn speakers.
Me and Pete with a cig on the Ave, parched,
rough-lunged, red-eyed, and bored. No gloss.
Playing “Informer” at Frazier’s. Anna and Emily
bellowing “Zombies.” A chicken box at
the Owings Mills RoFo at 4am. Next morning
Starbucks with Dhimitri. Ides in Lawrenceville.
Zehmer was later cut. No Aaron either. Nigel
sleeping on the stairs. Ghetto Tourette’s.
Bacon rolls/bacon Rolls. “Hard” on the way back from Pikesville.
“Hot Stuff” to Station North. Every phrase needs a hyperlink.
Everything’s a joke; every joke’s a stretch.
Everything is basically us. Us again. I’m basically Monica.
I’m basically Pat. I’m the perfect combination
of Paul, Hoffner, Tommy, and Jay. I’m short-circuiting.
Is this all there is? The Harbor skyline.
Sweet part is California, and the ranch, and freedom.
The sorrow? The goodbyes of course. And
leaving this beautiful place.
Imagine me
Imagine me supine on a boat, sea-sick.
Imagine me searching Gmail for “unfortunately.”
Imagine me wretched.
Imagine me in bed, drunk, clutching my phone.
Imagine me and Aurora at a Finnish igloo hotel staring through the glass
ceiling at the Northern Lights.
Imagine me.
Imagine me driving to work in the rain, shouting over loud music.
Imagine me at a wedding, blowing my nose.
Imagine me gnashing brain, with gin, in a suit.
Imagine me in Vlorë sucking mountain water from a spout.
Imagine me eating yogurt and honey with walnuts, and drinking raki, and drinking raki, and
drinking raki.
Imagine me in the backseat while Meti winds drunk through dusty beachsides.
Imagine me off Falls in Pomp’s living room at three.
Eldis Sula is a writer living in New York. His work has appeared in Leveler and Artes Magazine.