Saturday, July 31, 2010

This poem is an excerpt from an upcoming chapbook written with my brother, Cody Troyan, titled Big Bill and the Lonely Nation

Reading Agamben alone in the park,
on a Sunday night.
Drinking beer, near the filthy pond,
where I feel as though I’ve been to
a thousand times in the last year, while
watching a group of belligerent Spaniards,
(especially the one with a Mohawk,)
make lewd gestures in my direction.

I belong nowhere, as I am caught
between two hovering impossibilities:
no nation, no state, no cultural identity or language
to save me, and the worst of it is that
my Radeburger just tipped over and
spilled on the grass.

Schade.


They, (the Spaniards that is,) are now
slurring loudly, smashing bottles
(possibly over each others heads,) and
as their screams get louder, I still can only
speculate as to what
any
of that
possibly
feels
like.

Maybe a head wound is better than this.

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