Poem: Fontana, for as Far as we can Go

Amanda Burke/Staff

A city of working faucets.

My parents took me to the foot of the mountain and fed me until the hills took me in. In the dream, TV shows freeze over completely, and whatever happens happens around them. You’re not going to grow up unless I say, the loving father says. Tell me if that mirror is just right, the lovely mother says. A boy can’t have too many images of himself.

A desert of red roofs. An endless game of tag.

In the locker room my friend showed me his knife, while outside a comedian slapped others with a dildo. No one knew where he was three days later, except for the few that had to. Except for the comic.                                             The trailers where we had Art History got asbestos, and the asbestos won.                                                                       What would you do with $10,000?

a) Cover-up the moon

b) Go to Vegas with the President

c) Dye your hair red

d) Make your ‘six-letter word’ fireproof

Try 1. Our neighbor was racist so we egged her house. Life bored us, so we egged Andrew’s house. Our poor mothers couldn’t bake cakes.

Try 2. After a game involving a ball and rules we made up along the way, we were al tired and sat on the pavement, feeling like we could do anything.

Try 3. Vanessa’s mom bought her a Saturn, and the guys wouldn’t leave her alone.

Parking lot soap opera. A case of thrills.

At some point I tire of thinking, and this TV-lit aquarium will have to constitute reality. High school students get arrested for walking out of class in the name of ———. A mother and two children sleep under the overpass. I work at a food chain and only have this dumb shirt to show for it. What would I do with $10,000? Poor people in movies are rough or happy. That is, unless poverty is the hero, pure and well exercised. Hollywood must milk its small time actors. My friends were headed for an island known to be either great or terrible. Why? No one cared. I whittled a raft and rowed away into the atomic sunset. I visit every now and then, and Fontana seems to have more trees and homes that just float in the desert of God, hospitals and the military. Every highway city grows along its exits towards what.                                                                                                                                                         I make confessions to the love doctor, and make peace with dead things by acknowledging them, lying there, in the sand. Chance brings up the flowers on the side of the road like a throwaway grave.                                               “No, like birds on the shore,” you say.


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