Do It Liverpool
Liverpool lingers inward, in upon yourself.
limp hindered like a poem or dream
says “I know I’ll never go there.”
Luscious licks slick down the groove
of your neck, the slits of your
assonance of hope in a long day.
Hate the Rolling Stones. Hate the Rolling
Stones and sing a poem sung “I ain’t got
no Home.” Do it Liverpool. Do it Traveling backwards.
like a ditch down somewhere
exaggerate it in form. A bedroom
ditch down in it and somewhere
know it better than a dream or the internet.
In it upon yourself, it makes sense somewhere.
Think it while joking around, coming in limp,
Backseat, a Volvo: Kent, Connecticut
I return, slanted, to the memory of this:
I remember a cut of hills, hulled & slanted,
Driving Aspetuck Ridge. This backseat, this Volvo,
With warmth clung, moving to Kent & terribly & terribly
New England without foresight & We, serious & really going
This is not some mere act of recollection. This is no instance
Of an inherit act of grandeur. This is whole in its glimpse.
The gasping backwards & remembering like, without consequence.
To this, them think it simple, this, a glimpse, grounded solopsisms,
Save this terror in driving north.
& now know that this is my habitual predisposition-
My inhibitions of moving forward & unlike the rest in a hum caught torn.
Unlike cut hills & the day I was driving, left slanted, to be born.