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Where Nothing Is

by: Frederick Pollack

It is the summer of Gore’s film.
This heat was brought to you by greed.
In a Sargasso Sea between errands,
you confront the superior might
of shadeless urban planning.
Soon water will be rationed, and you’ll stink,
or left up to the market, and you’ll die.
You’re taking a chance with that title.
And with the second person
if it turns out only to mean you.
New lawn-trimmer, kittylitter.
Don’t neglect the connotations.
Pick up Zinfandel.
You alone are responsible
to maintain a class analysis,
to detect the boast in each complaint.
You alone are responsible
for your work. Who else is interested
in the gelid flux of self,
or wants to read a phrase like that?
Escaping either into flux or crystal.
By the drugstore, a sensible car
idles, its driver talking:
you need no longer say,
on a cellphone. Girls from Our Lady of Victory
pass in their plaid skirts, shrieking. The psychos
at the LaRouche table
have landed a live one. The lid
of the trashbin floats,
as always, over Slurpees. But to see
History plain means no longer to humanize; focus
on objects, the unscooped poop, the beep
of the tanker backing into Exxon. The human
has insufficient breath for the word
it needs to mutter: History
is part of nature, will be reabsorbed.
And so you came into the world.