WHEN I FINALLY GET IT, I WILL BE GONE

 

Beneath the skewed fluorescence;

beside the white enameled refraction,

I am about somebody's father’s business

in the all-night laundry—

a half-day's walk from the good jazz.

O how the city spreads. Here

 

my wives “return” in the order

which they were received: the first folds,

the second wipes steam from her glasses,

a third complains: “You can’t

get closer to God than procreation—

love-making.”

 

I think I finally get what she means,

and imagine how I might have replied,

then go right back putting the sibilant

his-s-s into personal history. A flying pig

dried in the unit next to mine

goes into a tight manic spin.

 

I did this! I built the 24-hour world,

chose it over something, strung

the lights, arranged the abortions. I’ve had

a long and busy time, but all I want

now, is to pack up, and get out, before

I go public with my yellow need for Christ.

Steve Trebellas lives in the river town of Burlington, Iowa. His home is an old gas station which is on a bypassed section of Highway 61. On his house he’s painted big and bold "JOIN NRA NOW"—not because of an ideological kinship with right-wing whackos, but rather because it deters thieves. Five years ago he finished his undergraduate degree at age 49 and obtained a teaching fellowship at Southern Illinois University. His MFA consisted of getting drunk with Rodney Jones, and winning the hatred of many elite when he helped organize a Teaching Assistant Union. He’s had lots of jobs in his life, but teaching basic composition to undergrads was the worse. He is currently unemployed.

Dance to Death, Issue V

©2008 Sorrowland Press and all respective artists within.