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Poetry
by Nathaniel G. Moore
NOTHING’S GONNA STOP US NOW
Put on your lowcut navy blue Converse.
Lovely year, slice your pant legs, not your legskin.
Ralph Lauren off the hanger and
across your golden back –
part your hair like a sitcom star.
Load your schoolbag with tuna sandwiches
crushed by cans of Diet Coke,
your lulling Walkman with day old batteries
and a mixed tape nearing Side A’s end.
The morning screens with delight and sun.
Last night you lunged with epiphany
and 8-bit stimulation, declaring
“The video game is a startlingly brilliant approach
to personal narrative…” You are respooled correctly
now, heading into a cool April morning that bleats
in thermal delight. You bite the air before you
and sense the familiar tingle
anticipating the machine’s
infinite pick up of Cotton Ginny,
the babes of Levi Straus,
the lasses part of this circuit:
Leaside 56
How many rides left?
How many worlds will vanish
from the cerebral cinema
you can’t pry yourself from?
Tell it later; this ride is still going.
The retina scans from a thousand beauties,
all virgins,
like you and they like you.
[Distillate © HA&L + Nathaniel G. Moore | {from the Greek bios} -- the course of a life.]
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