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Poetry #75
(published Early, 2002)
Half a Dime in the Desert
by Matthew Wascovich

Please phone home, you are underdog.
Underground dirt bomb,
Daddy's little red light sale.

May I ask you, what is your mission?
Blow you a kiss like a paddle fan,
Like a mouth full of syncopated steel,
Like a crummy closet.

She took it off in order to take it down.
A wild lunch.
A wild hunch.
Cancelled flights in morse code,
Elegant on elephant time.
Heavy-footed, feet cemented to new construction.
Allusions were delusions, yet, delicious with video camera.
A wider lenses.
Difficult to get.
Cut up.
Birthing undershirts.
Crackle starch.

Shoes are tight and the phone rings in the bathroom.
A scratch pad by the toilet.
A proof on a string.
Three socks alone, unmatched.
A smash kit.
Hearing aid, nuts and alleged, high art.
Cut off.
Cut up.
I see you sing.
Hands in the air.
Her fist in the air.
Just a real hot, hot.
Just a real hot, hot.
Damn this jumbled pest.
A festival of pest.

I think about it, about you.
Another night, yes, another night.
Keep it moving.
Cautious television.
Loud returns.

Hammer, the art crowd.
Hammer, highway route 90.
Hammer, terminal tower.
Hammer, d.a. levy.

Rusted boat, you in a plastic jacket, sink proof.

This poem first appeared in In My Head. Reprinted with permission from the author.

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