Poetry
Seth Copeland grew up in Indiahoma, Oklahoma. His work has appeared in Puerto del Sol, Poet Lore, Seneca Review, Rust & Moth, and South Dakota Review, among others. He edits petrichor and co-hosts the Tabi Po poetry series in Milwaukee.
Back to Vol. XI: “PARA/SOCIAL”
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Over Yonder
Accessible Version
Here we are burl in a hicktown
deep in zooms of Google Maps :
the classes of Ninetywhat – Two Thouwhenever
gut glugging laughing in the yard
of some farmer who couldn’t wait out a liver transplant :
sold this house to last year’s basketball star :
Every shot he takes he yells COTTON BELT CHAMPS
Glass gem corn in a corporate sack
gleams from the porch in the mercury light
electric soft puff pale over all
our cream blue darkness :
We sap // swap whats new over
shit beer recall hookups that
never did & definitely wont tonight
A few of us weekday in college for now lmao rite man
missthehighfive
Ben’s burned out from History Class & who wouldn’t be
This bloodied field along a railroad track that runs cold
& dystopian along & apart from it.
Most of us wear day job smells hangover sweats
someone else’s partner
& (m)e Flannel scarecrow in the big boy bales
just a freak fool not cowboy cool but learning to someone off
in the corner\:|dude she swears it danced on the hood
of her car &
then leapt off
man yea|
all of us thirsty crusht masks the wood bust on the café counter
the grease burger smoke stale
the one where everyone’s grandpa talks
of everything & blames it all except his own long fade
Nevermind Nevermind
In the faccess we laugffhin voi ces midnied ileegl in frayd
k(ow)t(ow)n laaw bookx
[Syntactic Structures] cannad defeet
druntext slurgan
slur etcht in the café pinball
boys’ locker
filled w/ graphite doink bloats
drawn by the same kid
who is somewhere between jesus &
cigarette coat reek
which is specific & isolate but
also everywhere
in the disappearance
of this capital terminus
& so here (we) wayward youth stand in moon & slur ourselves up(rum Sp)rite ::
We are the demons that replaced your kids yes :
Most of us deny that we love anyone
but of course every one of us does ::
Cool scratch
: indigo
: bunting
: burnt out
: cedar
by a small shed
off to the side
::::
a spirit I do not believe in
who doesnt need me to believe in it
to do this
& then I catch it in his eyes ::
a dream of what this place wouldn’t let us be
with each other ::
leering the moon’s outskirt light :
a cow skull on a kitchen wall :
dead in the mask but waiting resurrection:
stall gapped talk drunk
yeah man bro dude | u kno th codes come on
back 2 it were getting into it bro
Fuck what is he saying his eyes
By the septic tank they’re still talking about
cryptids dancing on people’s cars
the escape of whatever great movie
is happening somewhere else,
reminds us that everything real & sweet must be far away
not in old names like Manitou Konawa
Altus Okmulgee
Tishomingo Chickasha
Ada Okarche
Pawhuska Lahoma
Miami
spelled Miami
said
Miami
El Dorado in the boons,
some city of gold for the spit of this red dirt,
rumors of beauty where we aren’t, grainy transmissions
barely leaking into the what the hell the fuck that is really the
shit as we dance dance dance dance as if fields drooled blood
as if all Baptists lapsed they do we do we do not stop
In some yonder
where the grass is a dull jade
liquor vespers
beech nut
two cousins fighting
after one rolls a joint
with a bible page