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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 64

CRUISE CONTROL

Nobody cares about your free vacation.

The seagulls acting like pigeons,
The garbage cans overflowing
Down by the seashore.

“Take a dip,” he said.

There’s no simple word for you,
And believe me, I’ve tried a few.

Skeins of plastic stuck in the propellers.

We still haven’t gotten
Around, over or under it.

Take myself, for instance, far far away.

It will not do to investigate the subject too closely.

The trees become the wind.

Draw me a perfect circle,
Never to be unbroken.

And don’t worry—
You’ll have plenty of time
To jump to conclusions in the morning.

Which doesn’t make me terribly unhappy,
Just slightly puzzled.

Is this the church bazaar? Am I my brother’s keeper?
Whoever’s in charge, the shit is going to get deeper.

There were no injuries,
But some of the 345 passengers
Vomited after disembarking.

And always remember to cover your head
In the contagious cemetery
By the Erie Canal
Where you’ll never know your neighbor.

Hiding my towel behind the lockers
And then claiming I lost it
Was how desperate I was not to go swimming.

If the Navy doesn’t
Have your number,
The Army does.

And they went to sea in a sieve.

  Ian Ganassi