By Travis Jeppesen.
Mountain of Yearning
A fine rash establishes itself on my torso. Another yellow morning to get lost in. The day will become the adventure of ants in a cage, burying their way towards oxygen. All they’ll find is a black man’s skull. I don’t want to stay official on that one. Wish our leaders made us docile. But instead, we’re merely allowed.
Leaning toward booger venture. Plastic explosion, the newsman. Ugliest actor still has to find work. Subtle us some more, I love you. Moses deep inside. We shade the raid. He who must kick down the door. A lone rat is your honest answer. We must learn to invent sideways dimension. Smashed E on the walkway, a thin bridge leads us there. No one knows. The truth a bee sting.
Eat My Rot, Corky
A new kind of chewing gum can satisfy
all tastes. It’s amazing, the stuff
they come up with these days. It makes
me glad I’m not allergic to the sun.
There are worse things, I imagine, but
we’re not interested in entering them in
our limited vocabulary. The trees offer
too much comfort. We see the open
frontier, but when we reach out to
touch it, find it flat and staticy.
The hair stands up on the back of our
necks. Just looking doesn’t cause
that. Guess you have to defamiliarize
yourself with something before you
Eat logic hot dog bugger. Magic
stain octagon name black skulls
push a button. Not to “variance” the
shock, but to allergic psychosomatic
suffusion lack time sphere demonic
Italy. Runty surety palm fore, knots
in cots also black. Transpire the
Microphone face lawyer. Time spinner
block stem. Hawks, cats knock over
the hot iron steam. TV Grandma,
everyone’s gay in the USA. Beard
and toenail trimmers unite against
the threat of fascism, world is
saved. So we find another leader
To pick apart like vultures in a
humidifier. Who wants to be a millionaire?
That guy’s tie. To personify numbers
is all that’s left. We cannot come
down to the level that’s been forced,
we are left vulnerable to hallucinated
existence instead. Let’s kill gravity,
Invent another system to defy, see-
through being will float like olives
in a martini, graced with the over-
whelming fact of presence in all
its undiluted forms (if there are
any left.) Just to stand there
naked would be enough, but we
Have to fuck things up with the
wind in order to give voice to
all the appliances we keep around
us, as though they’ll protect us
from whatever invading force
we’ve invented to keep us clean. It’s
abstract, the illusion of wildfires,
Devouring the cities we’ve worked
so hard to build to destroy.
Skiing down a woman’s breast be-
comes the last thing we can hope
for, that and the ingrained desire
that we’ll awaken tomorrow
morning with nothing left to say.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Travis Jeppesen is the author of a novel, Victims (Akashic Books, 2003), and a collection of poetry, Poems I Wrote While Watching TV (Blatt Books, 2006). He currently divides his time between Prague and Berlin.
First published in 3:AM Magazine: Sunday, August 10th, 2003.