Topeka, half the moon is rotten with shadows pooling in the Sea of Topeka. Topeka, where first I wet my brain with a 40oz bottle of Topeka.
Topeka, is place name, is damn shane, is a mirror made of sand & Topeka. Topeka, you are substandard. I am not. Yet I'm the one on my hands & knees
searching for the lost key in the prairie grass, ripped on acid, loving the
fallacy that the black keys equal melancholy, the black keys being
Topeka, miscast capital, you're not more political than a handshake with your
dream-self upon waking, in my case dream-self lives & dies in Topeka.
Topeka, the sickness cannot be cured of Topeka.
Topeka, tigers laze about the yards, a man with a box balanced on his head, his
possessions stuffed to brimming trots down Topeka Ave.
Topeka, the sickness will go unnoticed. The vaccine is composed of rare
sentiments, the kind that love & hate with equal abandon, love & hate,
love & hate, love & hate. Topeka.
Topeka, there was a night when the moon didn't appear but it appeared
everywhere else in the world, what happened that night? Topeka?
Topeka, I fear for your life, the intersection of 29th & California is a portal to
Hell. I died there twenty times in my youth. Today, driving through, I toss
a bouquet of roses to mark my third death, the one that had a soundtrack
I can't shake free. My sister sings it from the shower every morning.
Forecast calls for occasional showers, with the possibility of late-morning
sleet, in Topeka.
Topeka, cast off the reliquaries! Call your men to war! Me? I'll be tugging one
last hit from the bong I fashioned out of the shrapnel of Topeka.
Topeka, pop. rarely exceeds one, as in each trip home happens in rewind,
stepping back across the creek, bird in hand throwing up the worm,
further back, unbreaking its wing, bird flying off as it resurrected but
from among the living, there I am, eight years old, seven, six, now a slug
of semen sucked back into my father, now, as the waters roll back across
the plains toward the river, a dog coughs up water, lifts its head, sees
nothing, puts its head back down, this, Topeka, is your history, although
it never happened.
-From Palm Trees
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