MID-AMERICAN CODAS

from Cantos for David Berman to Sing: Part II

CII.

              At Cartoon River Gallery,

              I’m blown away by a daffodil painting.

At work, I meditate in the walk-in freezer.

Is Zen short for Frozen?

CIX.

A.  Suppose everything's a matter of perspective.

Like twin railroad tracks appearing to merge together-

in the distance.                                         

Or bong hits in a fallout shelter.                                                             

Like expensive nosebleeds onto cheap upholstery.

Constantly whiffing the BO of BS.

 In archipelago shopping malls, fueled by suburban step-mothers, between

                            panoptical parking meters.

Credit card statements are hardly instructive.

(According to the National Institute for Mental Turbulence,

an estimated 10 million adult Americans are scared shitless

of skyscraper restrooms.)

Constipated… in the twilight of our national anthem.

Frightened… by a Monsters of Metal DVD played backwards

on a snowy Magnavox.

We took to the alleys, feeling like annotations.

On television's lowest ratings day,

                                          when NASCAR pulled ahead of

Women's Tennis.

The air had failed to achieve invisibility.

It was so damn cold that

the smoker's couldn't differentiate

between the CO & O2 cumulous.

B.  A spirited Homecoming Queen is whisked away

                                                               by the opposing team's percussionist.

                            You'd be surprised by the number of

Marching Band Groupies.

                            And the staggering amount of pillows that disappear

              forever into the void of kick-drums.    

(According to the American Center for Statistical Analysis,

73% of stats are made up on the spot.)

Try explaining subliminal advertising to Stevie Wonder.

C.  After the game, we tarnished ourselves with

Maker's Mark & ginger ale.

Then we lit out for the suburbs.

Passing Mild West Mortgages and E-Z Street Loans.

                            Marooned at Pedestrian X-way.

We put our faith in Henry Ford and look what it's done.

J-walking is damn near impossible.

Just ask the North American deer.

D.  Every bullet has a POV. 

CXLIII.

The first thing they teach you in

the Witness Protection Program is How to

Remain Anonymous.

They give you a wardrobe as bland as hospital pudding,

replace your first name with Mike or Bob,

and they force you to speak in passive voice:

                            I was learning to be Bob in clothes-

the color of Christmas Jell-O.

I was unlearning to be myself, again.

CXLIV.

              I try counting backwards from infinite,

                            but the second number  

                                          keeps eluding me.

CV.

              The future is a multiple orgasm.

                            It just keeps coming.

              To the untarnished days beyond the fray,

                            Come on, come on, come on.  ***  

Ryan Ridge hails from Louisville, Kentucky. He is currently an MFA candidate at the University of California, Irvine where he teaches creative writing.  His work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in 5_Trope, Salt Hill, SmokeLong Quarterly, Upstairs at Duroc, Yankee Pot Roast, and elsewhere.