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"Drive Thru" snuck up on me the way lust and hunger often sneak up on me.
I am one of those people who can be suddenly struck by craving without realizing that my stomach has been grinding on emptiness for too long.
With this poem it is a banishment: there are no children here.
What a lonesome, futureless place of absence and ghostly laughter.
I would say I wonder what happened to him, but I don't.
This poem was first sparked by a lunch in Atlanta with a beloved poet friend years ago, when my first book came out.
When she emerges again, she is mortally wounded, having cut her own throat. "Spieden Island…" was more of a collective gathering on my part inspired by overhearing many different speech acts—the naturalist guide who asks questions, provides information, voices aspirations, the father prompts thinking towards the end, and then the approximations, or half translations, of the imagined inner thoughts of the sheep.
A guy I knew in college began a story with the line, "It begins 'in medias res,' which is Latin for 'not very good.'" I later got into two fistfights with that guy.I probably need tell no one that growing up in predominantly white towns, the first day of classes was always a source of strife for me when I anticipated my last name called out.I became a master of the forced/pained smile, making sure everyone (most of all the teacher) was comfortable with (and in spite of) my discomfort.Where the poet fiendishly finds the adult miseries "erotic," linked by sound with "wrecked," totaling the solemn town.There is a story from when I was a small child and lived in Oakland, California, the city where I was born.
According to my notes, the first draft was composed on the third of August 2015.