Bethel
Space shrinks in the chill,
makes each movement of knee
or shoulder feel like a grinder
that never manages to smooth
its subject. But this, you think,
might make it worthwhile, as you
plant your cane in the snow
at the head of Tundra Way
and look out over a town
in the middle of a wildlife
preserve. Can't get much closer
to off the grid while still
in the neighborhood of a hospital
and a good plate of bourbon chicken.
Anything to take the chill off.
But first, to find a library.
Delaware
What sort of kid
would not dive for a Huffy
at the bottom
of the river
a bike gone over
the rusty bridge
that half-glows,
combines New Hope
and Lambertville
a sick mix
of the warped
and normal?
Rest your head
between I-beams.
Your body waves
in the everpresent wind.
Rest your head
between imitation-
oxidated copper
between Whitmanesque
stretches across a muddy
river of hate, a river
that burns away
the irradiated corpses
the Jersey Recycling Mob
dumps there
the rhythm
of waves on shore
makes voodoo
on those who stare
too long
into the river's depths
we stare
we stare
we stare
at the Flood pieces
Satan's flood
Jesus' flood
they whisper down
the ugly muddy river
beg away
beg away
like olive-stuffed pimentos
to the barges in Philly
damn the bridges
from the city
that lead
to that great
glow-in-the-dark
Garden State
damn the suburbs
that make women like you
hang themselves by bridges
damn the city itself
that reaches out
with bikes and suicides
and sorrowful children
and makes its suburbs
into a halflife wasteland
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). He published his first poem in a non-vanity/non-school publication in November 1988, and it's been all downhill since. Recent/upcoming appearances in Soup Can, Balestra, and Cacti Fur, among others.
Space shrinks in the chill,
makes each movement of knee
or shoulder feel like a grinder
that never manages to smooth
its subject. But this, you think,
might make it worthwhile, as you
plant your cane in the snow
at the head of Tundra Way
and look out over a town
in the middle of a wildlife
preserve. Can't get much closer
to off the grid while still
in the neighborhood of a hospital
and a good plate of bourbon chicken.
Anything to take the chill off.
But first, to find a library.
Delaware
What sort of kid
would not dive for a Huffy
at the bottom
of the river
a bike gone over
the rusty bridge
that half-glows,
combines New Hope
and Lambertville
a sick mix
of the warped
and normal?
Rest your head
between I-beams.
Your body waves
in the everpresent wind.
Rest your head
between imitation-
oxidated copper
between Whitmanesque
stretches across a muddy
river of hate, a river
that burns away
the irradiated corpses
the Jersey Recycling Mob
dumps there
the rhythm
of waves on shore
makes voodoo
on those who stare
too long
into the river's depths
we stare
we stare
we stare
at the Flood pieces
Satan's flood
Jesus' flood
they whisper down
the ugly muddy river
beg away
beg away
like olive-stuffed pimentos
to the barges in Philly
damn the bridges
from the city
that lead
to that great
glow-in-the-dark
Garden State
damn the suburbs
that make women like you
hang themselves by bridges
damn the city itself
that reaches out
with bikes and suicides
and sorrowful children
and makes its suburbs
into a halflife wasteland
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). He published his first poem in a non-vanity/non-school publication in November 1988, and it's been all downhill since. Recent/upcoming appearances in Soup Can, Balestra, and Cacti Fur, among others.
