This afternoon even the ducks seem illicit, beating the pier to death.
Temperature sleepwalks in judgment, unveiled in the skull-shaped harbor.
She stumbles onto the dinghy and streams a YouTube. This is her message
of pessimism, her closet stocked with barracudas. Fucking asshole President.
Perfect camera of dirt. She cannot stomach the bone marrow growing
on her own skin. She will vlog here a while, dimly rocking.
The world can shove its potable philosophy. Eat your haven out, fancy weapon.
How many waves until the sinking, the forced wind? Maggots hard
at work on old news. Sometimes even God shrinks wrong. Rattle. Rename.
Misuse. Manifesto. Experiment with panic. White supremacists walked across
this bridge. Mummification, save us!!! Prayers. Prayers. Beetles in a memory
anthill. All morning friends quietly handed each other little shovels. Pardon
the vulnerability. Please excuse our appearance while nothing is renovated.
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Trump is trying to mend relations with a key African leader after ‘shithole’ comments [Business Insider]
Anton Yakovlev‘s latest collection is Ordinary Impalers (Kelsay Books, 2017). His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Hopkins Review, Amarillo Bay, Prelude, Measure, and elsewhere. The Last Poet of the Village, a book of translations of poetry by Sergei Esenin, is forthcoming from Sensitive Skin Books. This poem was written in New York City.
Image of Trump’s Mar-a-Lago club.
