by Keith Dunlap
That gall of anger that swarms like smoke inside of a man’s heart
Soul interfused everywhere from center to circumference
Sweeps and snuffles from out its cave
Only to discover Personalities on Parade.
A divine voice must have jammed the signal in some way.
An ancient blue bathrobe girdles the godlike loins
Swollen from the phlebitis of a four pack a day louse.
The Fuzz Buster II cannot undo what time and destiny has wrought.
I cannot hear what you are saying, I can only hear
The rusted wheels of a winged chariot hurrying near
The empty room asizzle with the static,
Like a television show inside of which a television is playing.
But I am not alone, not dancing in lone splendour in the attic.
Instead I am sinking into the crowded glunk, the easy chair
From where I can see the roll of history unfold
On the History Channel. Not alone. I too want
A pair of wings so that I can fly up into the dark
Carbon decay curling into the air like a trail of smoke.
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Keith Dunlap is a former co-editor of The Columbia Review and editor of Cutbank, having received is M.F.A. from the University of Montana. In the last year, his poem, “The Old Man in the Mirror” was accepted for publication in The Concho River Review; “Beauty Here,” in Borderlands; “Harry Shunk,” and “Kenmore” in Sou’wester; and “Melting Faster,” “In Memoriam,” and “Mr. Malkewicz Among the Pharaohs” in The Carolina Quarterly.
