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Poetry: Matt Rasmussen

FLY-OVER POEM W/ BILLY COLLINS ENDING

Your jet contrails stream
across my face of sky

like a money shot
in slow motion.

Only, I receive no money,
just the muffed sound

of jet fuel transforming
your tiny plane into frosting.

Oh, great blue cake,
inspire the bodies to land

across your surface
and I will swim into you

and pull out survivors.
At night, my light

flashes up at fly-overs
my emergency(s).

I know Morse code
for S and O

but have forgotten
which is S and which is O

so I just signal
so... so... so... so... so...

which is why no one comes
to rescue me, just passes by,

expecting me to find something.
To come back from the cavern

of my memory holding it,
giving it to you.

 

 

 

VACATION CAGE

When you click and drag
yourself across the world

there is always the dull
remainder of the original

left behind. Not as bright
as what’s moving on.

A thin curtain of pixels
clinging like a spider’s skin.

In a new city, a webcam
no one watches is watching

you and you feel the terrible
vacuum between lens

and audience. You laugh,
but no one laughs.

So you try to cry
because no one is laughing,

but can’t do this either
because everyone is always

secretly crying. Lives are lead
by learning, before each breath,

how to breathe. You sit down.
You’re a suit woven of smoke.

The concept of time starts over.

 

All Rights Reserved to Matt Rasmussen

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