Martin Jack


Photo America


I remember taking America, kodak

stitches pieced with a lens

turned eastward to shadow, the land-

scape’s rough powdered politics spreading

its vintage from the capital where

we chose communion over the controversy.


Crooked shimmers in the camera

record the greatest poem

melting into magic marker

weaved onto God and godless

readings of America, segregating

Whitman’s allness for the remote control.


 Each jigsaw vents the other

in outbursts of plastic,

public hangings. The cup of Christ

a subject for filibuster, miracles sung

and then roughed up either side

of the picket line that strangles


Capitol Hill with a clash of noughts

and crosses.  Photo America confined

to the question of what simulacra prays

under God.  The wrong question blind

to hiccups in the system, army maneuvers

overreaching in the desert.



At Tiger Haven


claws fray words

as food for cubs


sabre-tooth poets stalking

in the lamplight


of the Lost And Found

for nocturnes to breath back


spells into a crackled language

that taunts us


with how bored we live



t p u

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Sentinel Poetry (Online) #45August 2006   ISSN 1479-425X


Editor: Amatoritsero Ede

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