Reservoir
volcanic eruption.
i’m throating canoes.
again i eye the door like sport.
again i crease the edges
of GRE Test Prep,
furrowed and damp.
sweat blankets scribbles.
i’ve given up reason,
bubbling “C.” let’s think
diagonally
now.
let’s think every fit boy
who orders a latte
is dolled-up Bushwick
Mormon, pinstripe jeans
to the ground, knockoff
Uggs tracking in dirt
& chipmunk laughter.
it seeps into decaf.
the reservoir’s hazy &
furtive,
all brown and polluted,
spilled onto our muck-kissed asses.
it’s tremolo and it’s booming,
but i can’t find the note anymore.
is the mud still caught in
your soles? or has the snow
washed it over?
the Starbucks door
kind of vibrates
when it opens, and
my skull bursts dandelions,
bellows amphetamine rush,
a head fuzz reaction,
quake-shiver-tummy-ache.
spaghetti blondes
peek
from the corner. perched on
royal shoulders, kind-hearted
shoulders. a
rotation &
his stance is alien,
not quite fag-handed
enough to be catalyst.
hound-hunkered,
blue collar voice drumming low.
okay, there’s no boats. okay,
hose the damage.
vesuvius calms.
i bubble “C.”
Buzz Kozak is a senior at Purchase College studying playwriting. When not writing for the stage, he writes poetry, which has previously appeared in Dadakuku.