Landscape near a Landfill
Addicted to fog and roiling seas, to dark Moroccan streets
and scorching deserts, we wondered what she saw in him.
Obligate anaerobes mingle with pearly everlastings, and yet,
theory weary true believers produce more words every day
than wannabe muses dared to hope, black jobless figures
at historical lows. How many words must a man put down
before you can call him a man? Mom and pop therapists
convene in Decatur, Illinois—deep clashes of intuition,
bad news for novelists. Our steam engine, the microchip.
We hitched our star to a falling wagon, depending on
your point of view. Generous Americans dropping peanut
butter and jelly sandwiches on Afghan wastelands, miles off-
target. Dangerously prolific, modernism’s project comes to rest
at last in a field of biblical prophecy, finally open to question.
Hal
Halvard Johnson
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