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,

Come-lick it.

 

 

*

 

 

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

Nowhere.

 

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.