Jay Deshpande

Galloping rush to the other side I feel it
in my ribs. Somewhere the tear is heard
in flesh in seams I think my own. I’m presently

looking on screen at several sites at once
with tabs to help my purpose. I have purpose
until I don’t, or used to, and this seems

a reasonable way to pass through the crowd
of an afternoon. Soon I’ll know eighteen
things I didn’t want to about John Boehner

by way of farm-to-table news and this
video of guinea pig. Hunger productive
in that it draws the body away when mind

cannot. You think you have a plan until
you’re busy but with what. It’s never bad
to do three things at once if the goal

is not to finish. I really need some
art-school notes on ochre and before
my think-piece privilege injection

a friend to wish us all happy National
Day Day. I see a post, a funny term
for the stationary, something fixed

sempiternally, a stake in the ground or flag
to mark territory; but all I mark is not
sure where I just read that though I did

I’m almost certain. The root of distraction
in Latin was distrahere, which we know now
is not dissimilar to being drawn and quartered

by horses, the vision that the self can be
in two directions at once pulled, pulling
perhaps the hemispheres of the brain attached

to different bridles toward opposite points,
audience cheering, the thought of con-
demnation so strong we think we’re almost

sure we know what we were meant to feel
when the crime was first committed.
We mark our bodies this way and save it

and offer it to others, do you want to
tag Jay Deshpande. My face blazoned
across the mid-afternoon sites of many

sleeping sitting up, faces of the overfull
and foolishly employed, sitting at desks
in states of open plan, we tab

to another and see another do another’s
chores and feel vaguely sure this is real
or the point of what we should be doing

but what was it? In old days someone punished us
this way but now we can be relied on to do it
independently. The beauty in the back

some part of my brain knows just what to do
to get me to do nothing ever again.
I scroll dissatisfied, turn and scroll, I am

all for not exactly getting anything
done today. I like the way the zoning out
looks on me. I lost the direction

somewhere along in here, I’m torn between
the airspeed of the parakeet and where this storm
makes landfall, and I hear the last I hear

will be the hooves on sand to take me to
a most sure of other places, which is me when
in several parts and not discerning anything.