Farid Matuk – An American in Dallas

Farid Matuk

An American in Dallas

I wanted to get embarrassed              so much                         (a thread to pregnant in Spanish) I lower my head to bury it              in the green creek waters, slow vapors              burrow and fill my nose the death and change              of everything berries of some tree a small flat fish              makes a silver line of its belly, old forms              now a salt sharp              but with so many tones seeps into my lip and gums Good morning              By the road there is deer corn              outdrive a big sky storm for a quart of coffee              McDonald’s crotch              coffee says Scott The old songs              calibrate me to the dirt Beefmaster Gamesmen              (processor) sign spindle-flower farm              machines spit out or cut in rounds We ride in a beautiful TV car of Deborah’s family’s money what I write is what I make attend through an awareness of the son of capital the betrayed              the blues this is the mild donkey to make conversation with the golden ass–                                      awh fuck,              my disgraceful                         pursuit of a thought– a heat comes off the cement walk of the restaurant holding in it the powders and creams of some girls who’ve gone by a trace of their self-regarding and tending to their bodies that will die a billboard for cadavers (donated) peeled and posed at the natural history museum – where should my perception sit to be marked present?              The clouds in their strata the early moon from its perch              says c’mon show me your playlist I just now told Scott there’s no color like road              flares and there goes the sun toward Arizona              a red crane a silo              wait for their next operation Just get up and go              an open blindness of the Midwest to be learned at home the dog’s long tendons –                                      available and my toenail clippings pile on Susan’s coffee table and the ends of my toes whisper naked things into the air of the room Amen – I’m gay, I’m queer, I’m straight and black, and rich, and poor, and white This is it              World why you love and die and haul the company’s catch of fish write back and tell me              what you get out of it I feel so many impossible things between here and Waco              cuz of that surging orchestration still most mornings I wake up afraid even with Eileen’s poems that can turn me on to everything somewhere in the house                         This is my year as a racist I love Susan’s little hands so much they don’t even look human sometimes

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