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Poem of the Week by Michael Boughn

“City: Book One: Singular Assumptions”

By Michael Boughn

“I don’t need therapy – I need money.”

– student saying

You can’t earn enough in most

lifetimes to pay for the poetry

required to explain economics

to reality. If words could be worn

out and used up, crinkled in small

soiled balls or left emptied

and sticky in hornet infested

containers, economic reality

would be its tractatus, its ode

on a Grecian liar

ringing through hulls of democratic

bluster from mouths in swollen

red faces determined to pull

bootstraps of every errant pilgrim

into gravy free enterprise

of incarnate logos saturated

dispensation’s spiritualized

saving accounts. Who remembers

economics is to home as divine

life is to distant archaeology

of theological midden heap

may be prepared for sudden

showings forth of hidden doors’

transgalactic transfer of cold

words into apparitions of deeper

encounter. Say, a parking

lot within the one you just left

your car in, a vast sealed tomb

vibe emanating into corners

and crevices while it gains

a reputation for ease of shopping

pleasure, free parking, and

authorized admission. Then economic

reality realizes the rent

is too low and moves increase of what

ever margin darkness brings to talk

of blue. Household debt, too

a mystery of subtle encounters

with manifestations of density

deficit, misses the train and winds up

trapped in some allegory of profligate

burghers astride equine

rectitude in the charge up

Consumption Hill. Gravy

as an elemental leads to formations

of fat cutting brigades and periodic

weigh ins designed to distract

attention from vacuous visions’

hallucinatory underground utopia

toward what people want and back.

What people want is an abyss

yawning with boredom and often

confused with questions of life

on other planets. Is it there? and how

many eyes does it have? Economic

reality is its human disguise

amid levers of power and stands

for distribution of terror and pain

beyond the usual kind, along with

accumulations and hordes, beyond

as they say, imagining, where all gravy

goes once it has been cut, or cut

loose, a true economic reality

awash in glory and righteous

affirmation of divine law,

or maybe just a general rule

or possibly an operating

principle, how fat always

flows, as part of the Grand

Design, up, which is where after all

it belongs, in immaculate

dough-re-mi ascensions.

MICHAEL BOUGHN will join poets Marina Blishteyn, David Peter Clarke and Edric Mesmer at the next Studio Series reading at 7 p.m. Thursday at Just Buffalo Literary Center, 468 Washington St. (second floor).