Theme Park

America tangle with me, hybrid with me

and what bored surveillance footage,

stored in decades of black and white?



The roar is a wound.

Top 40 songs grow from it. Grow through

each finned speaker like a bad crop.



Someone taps me on the shoulder,

mistaking. Was I the good lover,

given over to the motions of goodness?



Screams: a blur of upside faces.

O from the cramp that many people

in a line is at last we are here



at last, America, climbing shakes

the wooden ties, up to where sweat makes

Rorschachs of the girl in front’s shirt



and desire does horrible things to our body

pushed and held back into the seat.

Plastered there as we summit.



Look: the skytower, the parking lot’s rows

of palms and chrome. We fall for

minutes into loveliness. And the



downward sky is endless. just a shade

of yellow on my brain where America

is nervously pressing its finger.