WYSIWYG & other poems
By Patrick Williams.
Every journey’s undergirt
with easy links to the flood
of dumb text a few welcome,
but most ignore by now.
You can watch the little digits
swell to tell it: deal, they say;
act. You must. Empire
Service is full of moments
when children become cargo;
they are bundled and huddled
as the dunes of busted dishes
behind the china factory scroll by.
It’s a preview, really, only
orderless. Each city is seen
as if caught by surprise, paused
on events no one thought to pick
up for. Ask about these landmarks,
my money says no one replies.
Droops from awnings the inside
unwatched makes stupid mistakes
on first sight raises bottles
to made-up names quells
continuously in uncommonly
close staring contests subverts
the hydraulic resonance
of hourlong overripe alibis
by way of treadmill stats takes
stabs at getting feet off floors
jumps to reach any ledge, chops
in lithe loops & gives up not impressed.
Your Kind Attention Please
A children’s book should not reveal
our planet to hurtle in a corkscrew
motion. Or any objects to move in two
or more directions at once. Just like you
should not tell me the vacation spot
I mention was mostly destroyed by this
month’s floods. We already sent the deposit.
The clever food and beverage pairings
are lost on most patrons as they behold
your dinky illusions. Some have even left
their over-cushioned barstools to marvel
at the cardboard box of pale deer bones
carefully placed on the lip of the stage.
Borrow a quarter and press
your face to the steel. Steady
the scope on the ramps and lifts
at thirteen degrees. That’s left.
The anxious ticking stands for time,
the silence for it’s up, for even
the iris of this soda straw of sense
is too much to take in for long.
Face the queue of other tourists.
Watch them pull what they can
of moments-older peaks before
each lease on the gaze expires.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Patrick Williams is a poet and academic librarian living in Central New York.
First published in 3:AM Magazine: Tuesday, November 12th, 2013.