Sara Mumolo
June 27, 2009
from Money On It
I can’t hide you—the rock cried out.
mmm
mmm
Because the mechanism of surrealism is an activity
mmm
not an image—I find the embrace in description.
mmm
Where staging of hours counts closer stars
mmm
and fails capitalism
mmm
—so we may conjoin where air does not—
mmm
in San Francisco’s parks
mmm
fog confetti
mmm
and we unfasten
mmm
lids to open brief eyes
mmm
across lawns, this is where we ask:
mmm
What’s the matter with you rock!?
mmm
We mouth: P o w e r!
mmm
And pigeons, ducks beak away their feathers.
mmm
Their plume—in limbo—insults clouds
mmm
under this state: how we bankrupt
mmm
each other one after another. In lieu of
mmm
burning cigarettes through Kant’s money,
mmm
breath cleaves your peering through these holes
mmm
when every tree suddenly
mmm
scents of cultivation,
mmm
parks boil,
mmm
stars blink.
mmm
Variety is the plastic industry we make invisible
mmm
industry is everything even gardenias.
I liked the pomp and circumstance of this.
mmm
Even gardenias strip along poles
mmm
in our demiworld of currency—
mmm
cystic eyes shut— a soot stage
mmm
where militaristic chants desensitize
mmm
(the men). It’s a broadcast
mmm
of ching-chings we imagine
mmm
buoys troops through hybrid-stages. They do not
mmm
make uniforms that fit us
mmm
so we fashion our own
mmm
audiences—feel compelled to enchant—
mmm
Our outlines inseam
mmm
and tailor our attractive suffering:
mmm
The safety pin you pierce through your nipple
mmm
and I thought you were brave—
mmm
ching-ching.
mmm
Its shock, a sign’s art
I shop for the edge of constructs.
mmm
Where all my actions are.
—a tractor, beer, radio-politic
whose public ticker reaches back
to fetch moments off a tight-rope.
Progress, our invention—likely to commercially succeed
real-time grows conceited (extinct)—can we forgo
advancement in favor of shapeliness,
in favor of fields flexing beyond pixilation…
When a horse falls it foams from its mouth
& it is useless: someone shoots it
& its parts concoct into glue. This
glue then gets put into bottles and kids use this
glue to glue things onto cards.
White gets over the kids hands and these kids
eat this glue. This circus
we pick up and drop wherever
a blank moment and Kant’s money
have yet to breed. Our portmanteau definition
is a method of narratology, a split-screen moral:
our plastic Midwest
we hate appearing in the dream of–
SARA MUMOLO curates the Studio One Reading Series in Oakland, CA . She edits CALAVERAS with Alisa Heinzman. Previous projects include editing MARY Magazine and co-editing Sorry IV Snake . Find her poems forthcoming in Coconut, Typo, Letterbox, Dusie & Cannibal. Read some now in Shampoo, Barnaby Jones 2, Hoboeye, Article Journal & Berkeley Poetry Review.
February 25, 2012 at 10:55 pm
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