da  s

I was pre-Pandoran once, clear & amok, scarlet free where scarcely
          orange or purple romed: all
font, Greek, drunk, then, then Tyred, vinegar aspect for breakfast. How I seam
          now in video
footage of national folding where only arson lives lives. Its source is valid because Google
calls it 100% relevant and government, which is apt since it’s an historical event. I reseek and
pall this chunk’s vocation. Viatical my neighbor asks if I’d ride in the trunk, no kid: my
hatchback is mined in the parking lot for its sparkplugs beyond the bar. She masking
he then is captured by the faith-based; once she creams, he stops calling it
vocation. Down here, they have imported the clouds from Japan, and I hear them, sardine.
Keez me, gaghrl, yer old wahn. Geta-crushing Shoji of the air will remember cat-noise
and –fish for complements as the King of Terror will never have forced
the possible Fed you you you’re not—not. Postal will be yours and you, bulk predellal, tardy
urinals on vehicles, art naught but an empty he-port. Grey they err over joy, toupeeing space
as picture meant to do. I stream, hand mover, reek, occupy ice and call that night. Of all
you finally type to say you hosted Uncle Chen in your backyard exclusive. Wake,
          it’s time to smell the smoke. Darling I
incensed. Once could have been your she-port; pretty noun
look ahead to repast and yr Gruyerer aspect. Hype alone remains inside the box.

Jennifer Scappettone, “     da  s” from From Dame Quickly. Copyright © 2009 by Jennifer Scappettone. Reprinted by permission of Litmus Press.
Source: From Dame Quickly (Litmus Press, 2009)
More Poems by Jennifer Scappettone