By C. Derick Varn
In the corner kiosk nudie magazines
in their obvious iconography collect
dust where I trudge and prod away
at the winter afternoon. One is
never more American than in Asia,
so here at home I feel lacquered
into a catastrophic litany of lazy,
unanswerable questions. There
linger like creepy hugs from aunts
and uncles or former lovers. So
there are fools who retire from
here to Suburban Georgia, prepared
to exterminate themselves with
Dalek precision. No police box to
them. So near the Tenderloin,
the evening call to prayer rings
near the streetwalkers, so here
I can learn the harrowing of hell.
I walk through pot smoke thick
as human stain. The only way to
heaven is through the aisles
between porn and malt liquor.
Of course there is more to any
city than this and fog. Where
are you at when you are right
here? Who kicks too hard on
pearled gates and text bombs
St. Paul to make sure your
name is known.
Clutching at Straws 