my neon reverie : the soul of americana
my reflection against
…the realm where the expanse
between
dreams, reality,
and what is my soul
is painted
with the billows of the distance.
as if the very concept of depth
is woven into its fabric. it beckons a
siren’s stare, resounding through the calm of the water
and the electric charge of the uncharted.
this is a chromatic symphony,
the clandestine clash of serenity and enigma
orchestrates an aria, imprinting on the canvas of the
mind…
i let my eyes run loose for just a minute, and it
jumps out and chokes me.
i tentatively grab onto it and
reach out w/ my right arm,
pulling into a surer, long embrace,
a tang of bittersweetness tickling the tip of my tongue
it sends an electric shock through
my tastebuds,
it entrances and
consumes me;
it is an overwhelming arousal,
leaving me drooling for more
of me
for all
of me;
me.
so
i plunge free,
my left side,
deep into the sea of––
until i am doused in––
in it––
imagine it––
until the neon lights beckon––a dazzling array––
and pull me away from my trance and
onto the dance floor.
i am jiving to assimilation’s dance,
with a unique figure whom looks
shockingly like myself with a hint of
a little something uncanny.
nevertheless, i tap and step until my feet
are bruised,
and when the led’s fizzle out, i am jolted
rudely and widely awake.
i pant, running far, far away to Gatsby’s green light, except
mine isn’t green.
i trek
my
internal terrain and i kill the
bears on my way
–and–
and the dragonflies and the cockroaches
for ‘neath neon’s hum
is a spillage of red mahogany burgundy deep maroon red,
first up to my ankles
then my knees
then my neck.
i try–i try––really, i–try
but my words run out of my esophagus and spill back into the void of nothing-ness of which it came from.
i drown,
drown,
i drown,
deep, deep, deep-deep.
but it is my pride for which i cease.
i am proud to die for my hues of americana:
this is all for which i plea,
yes, for
this is my neon reverie.
&&& (anchor)
after WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
if that were to be so,
that the current current didn’t expect much,
how would the waves dodge its depends?
or will it always be fate&destiny it rests upon?
the promise of the next tide shall bring a-
nother share of tomorrow’s peace and the red
that bleeds will turn the wheel
of tomorrow until he lies beneath his barrow!
his eyes will be glazed
with shocking compunction, with
the color of a monsoon rain.
the current will still push and pull its water.
the present will lay yet another anchor beside
the sunken ship of innocence. the
sea will repair itself a clean white
slate and the fields will open home to new wheat and barley, but no chickens.
tire of it
improper vocal technique
paper thin chords
and paper thin muscles
rasping burning
never exercise this weak because next
week is the week
god knows and i know and it’s up
to divine intervention, really
everyone, convinced of that simple fact
sleeping with
grinding teeth and open ears,
goody hardcore rock indie deities blasted at
incomprehensibly loud volumes
get a room you with your poetry
on van gogh’s ear and the meaning of your tears
go cry yourself to sleep whatever the case
(and i have seem them all)
tire of it child
(and that is what you are)
tire of it quickly
quickly
quickly
learn what you will consume
what cushions
you tire (out)
quickly
quickly
quickly.
fulfillment is as much a ghost in this life as the next man’s.
About the Author:
Grace Yoon is a sophomore at Choate Rosemary Hall. Her work has been recognized in numerous competitions, such as the Scholastic Writing Awards, and her slam poetry performances have earned her the title of Connecticut Youth Grand Slam champion and invitations to regional, national, and international slam conventions.
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