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My Fellow Americans
George Albon
Memorials having been left to the presence of meaning
the forest split open. They took the form of beautiful
milestones. A few noticed the resulting roadway.
It was firm and committed as watching the white on a wall.
The one called Richard was supposed to have been here by now
but perhaps he was detained. O vibrant, non-ironic Autumn,
the worst are running with the best. This was supposed
to have been a fairy tale. Have you any wool?
The eyes such as can look out look out from the impedances
blinking from exhaustion and belief
in tri-color imagery has turned out to be that business
conducted across, not down, the available space of the walk.
some where in town a non-abomination waits for us to include it,
there is a space where upmarket feelings go to be alive
neither in nor on the books, a dazzling, safeless tangent
like limb-movement during happiness, like rivers
scarcely dreamt during the rise of a water-based economy.
Damage, storm cellar doors blown open, O descending ozone,
people wait forever for that cheap aerial symbolism to take.
And then what? Ground, ground, is what we know best,
that, and skin during breath. One must endure a continent
of lost time before finding a secular scape to append one
to one's most stirring qualities. Don't resist. Bear
others' arms. Measure the green in the long field view
against the singular one with the burning lens, that
oxygen-absorbing knife in your attention. The alternative
is to founder in a vicious middle, and one never wants
to do that. It would be sere and pointless, like the smile
--such a meager, pathetic proposition to try to advance--
on the somnambulist walking straight out into the coup.
lingo 4
 Books in print by George Albon
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