the wasted land (pulse)

roberto santiago and dana jaye: the wasted land (pulse)

“Poem” is the first word at the tip of her finger,
a pile of copper found in pennies and wires in a squat
Her stare was vacant-neon above an empty lot
the window her dressing, nostalgia in knots. Antique-body,
plaid-voices brogue, timber, and whiskey-ginger spread out of the tone
like ice dilating the skyline of some unreal city, heaving fro and to a city
razed out of pane and glass. Yes, the object moved itself exquisite
Tempest in the sun, and ruined again. Inn leaning in, bent pink past
complexion or what is it the snow melts for? We go on, foot after foot
in journey, liquid wind. I have no ghost, but Eliot used and animated —
the vibrance of a cigarette lit, mid-heave, active in its ash I am. Night
and gale forced through window-guards and the screen is the buzz
of the Babel tower, palacing our inhabitants. The pascal poets policing
proverb and parabolic parables. Look! The cold comes and the tulip opens
her fragmented self, silken, a bunch of girls. They don’t speak, they spy.
Their segments like centipedes performing. And the legs are everywhere,
wanting space. Frequently. Ventricular. An alleyway-throb aligning her heart.

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