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RL ERICA ZHANG

I. SUNSET WESTERN GARDEN DOJO

 

I just can’t explain this feeling

In my Nike Free--ees

Stepping into adulthood

With a resounding squish

 

Once dubbed “the floating generation” young people have little

Chance of planting a firm foot in the unimpeachable flowerbeds

It is rather the refulgent edifice that wants of trampling

A quick blow will do, aim for the nose or the groin

 

We every one of us have fallen (TUES/THURS)

 Like daisies for the Jujitsu Brazilian

Nothing will be cured, nothing so delicious as meat

 In the morning. Nothing could go wrong

 

For us shape-shifters, weight-lifters, chameleon warriors

 Very soul of lightning flash door-to-door clocking

Our quest for the elusive Lawrence and Pliny

 The uncommissioned sector, the unleaded batter

 

The solid blow in the cavity by an open palm

 Blindside, roadside

Aye there’s a picture of the future

 

            Who is to say whether Caliban died in this cave

            grasping at water for thirst or one brave

            long look. O O UGH hideous visage

            so unlike that every visible atom blushes

            where the rest disintegrates

 

 

 

III. THREE SEASON PORCH AND BUNGALOW

 

A vegetable is a hologram, a shade between yellow and yellow orange

The way you look by the single fluorescent coif by the piano

The refusal to expend any more energy than is completely

Utterly necessary-- ACHT! I always liked you for these

Dated concepts, the old glory of Leia in her slave costume

It breeds skepticism. B grade for sanitation. B-movies

From abroad. B-utiful world. What a B season

 

The dolphins are biting. Grieving won’t alleviate any

More than taunting will induce pain, pain and pity, for crying

Out loud. The marquis understood the multi-colored koi

In the ambassador’s pond, their circles inscribed

A language foreign and new to his sight

Though he reads little, though he holds fish

In contempt, still he found to his delight

 

            In the next life, Tom got nothing on the cycle of life

            Ezra got nothing on the fisherman’s wife. The fish are dead

            But the water’s biting. The animatronic folk

            Demons have taken over the cave

            Now nobody visits, rich or brave

 

           Look–– bats, the sign

           Of good fortune

           Over full seas

 

 

 

 

 

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Circle Poetry Journal///Ministry of Obscure Knowledge  ©  2015