:: Article

truong in his living room & other poems

By Dusty Neu.

d on the patio

people look out their windows running fast past wet brick
we know hes seen sprawling green field golden hill   seen some
carburetors   radiators   we know hes seen some
things written on the wall above his head what is a

vanishing point   horizon   hes left
to crawl   creep at a crawl   fixed to rails
moving at a crawl   hes crawling   we
all saw this   what does he remember

i hadnt eaten a pear until i was
nearly grown hadnt eaten sunflower seeds
until after id grown dan taught me how told
me you can crush them in your hand or in your
mouth a type of thing to try to remember
as in the days of lead cicadas and haze

on the street on which wed grewn

we were walking   we could have
been in november instead of
june   i could have been
a handsome doctor instead of


sweating myself waterlogged i
could have been wheat noodle
   lexicon   or sweetened something
written on your hand

rain in late summer with the prattling sampietrini or i sent my letter &

my letter was answered

ive taken to being imagined
though idealized in thought alone
or the thought alone the muscle
it took to cart or carry your
grief a harrier kind of
chin a much less steady hand
greenery very dark wood

still i mention uneven tans i
mention dry brush & deadfall
fell trees is what i would have
written under frayed curtains
lamplight & mumbling wind
     rather than
why do you do where you have done

truong in his living room

i was too old to be there
i was too old for ploughshares
too old for billow   steam
old for petals   an emmet   pedal wagons
i was wagons
panel wagons stopped at the foot of the pond
i was still panel wagons steeped in ponds
older than cayenne   than paprika

thicker than ploughshare
thicker than eggshells   thicker than she drops
an egg   it was morning   it was wet out
it was hazy even indoors   it was eggs dropped
but thicker than that
older than that

viale europa viale america

could ben have seen from inside the bin
could ben have seen before him after

him could have been seen on a bus passing
the fountain in piazzale delle nazioni unite
passing the fountain a

fountain that is dried hole passing a dried
concrete passing by in the pool as

a boy i broke off a nail when i slipped on a
step would have been could be in

the pool half a toe had half a toe could have
been in the middle in the middle

around the middle of a vast expanse of
white concrete with buildings as giant

curved slabs in the heat with a plastic bag
blowing down the street

Dusty Neu is an American poet originally from California’s rural central valley. Every summer of his childhood was spent at the county fairgrounds chasing steers down the midway or awkwardly walking pigs round the ring in a green cap and tie. His work has appeared in Transfer and Pear Noir!. He currently lives and works in Rome.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Friday, November 22nd, 2013.