O to live like this, in obsessive ideal
until the world drops off its last letter,
who knows what goes on in your head, Emil—
If the propeller doesn’t grind me up
the sharks will— that’s what the captain says.
Dearest, in the Gulf of Mexico
the water is as blue as cinema,
and the sky like a filet lace pattern of Joan of Arc;
even now I’m falling apart.
I try to go for walks but think of white elevators
and what it means to be contemporary,
and the high interiors of the sea
are like a hollow wrist playing a black tambourine.
Yes, all the ships go the wrong way.
I don’t think I’ll do anything so important for a long time
as wear a pair of blue pajamas
and thumb The Ballad of Reading Gaol,
300 miles to Cuba
from my bed and board and rarely sober;
lovely confusion requires an active curiosity
where do I go from here, tilting out
into the waves
step by step then out of breath.
-- Damon Hubbs is a poet from New England. Recent publications include The Bulb Region, Trampoline, The Literary Underground, The Gorko Gazette, Revolution John, Horror Sleaze Trash, and others. He is the author of the poetry collections Nighttime Logic and Venus at the Arms Fair. He is the editor of Ape House Magazine.
