Curtis Rogers


The state I'm in,
I'm no good to my medication.
Suspended in perma-bobble
on the dashboard, traditional Hawaiian garb.
I closely brush with a fate I Googled. Nine
stringy pie plates skipping on possible's
lake. Something that doesn't sit right
is my M.O. I stir my drink & the ice wags
loyally. This isn't a franchise of the stress
hormone cortisol. It's a promise Ferris
wheeled by social media. Not going anywhere
you couldn't guess, the fear of. I'm stuck
in the synapse of my ways, like a crowd-lancing
glimpse. The shutting-off TV folds flash
like a napkin in its lap. Meditative breath spread-
eagled into lungs. Sometimes, doing good by
yourself entails a bum deal. A shoal of possible
side effects, show of hands from showstoppers.
My pharmacist sends me a message, "what's up,"
on Facebook. I rest my elbows on a burning table.
Stir drinks a stone skips across. Gone unexplainable
somewhere in an hourly luxury sedan, I kiss an arm                   
with a mean right hook. I learn the hard way
if at all possible. You can't divine purpose
from a commercial-broken surface, but you can
steal away to where hibiscus repeats. When I wrote
sunset I meant to write subset. I'm being impolite, but
I'm alone. My feet are up on the table up in flames.
The excited membrane leaks with spray tan. & I have
my doubts about what happens in this shirt's cotton.
Breadcrumbs like pageant contestants line behind
a curtain. Hearing my name in the crowd I don't turn.





This poem takes as its launching point the [Kenneth Arnold UFO sighting], which launched the term "flying saucer," and was the first such sighting in the modern era.