By Adrian Matejka
Ordinary as It Gets
In every Midwest amusement park,
there’s the music of the maw
& then there’s the music of the mind:
tonsils out, up The Beast’s wooden-
slatted hills, its rocking set list curated
for all the popcorn-getters & thrill seekers.
Do people still go to Cincinnati
for senior trips? The music is raucous
as you ascend: Living Color, Guns
N’ Roses, & the coaster’s clacks & creaks
as the loudmouth on the PA reminds
that the entire contraption is built
from old wood. Back on Earth: human-
sized Tasmanian Devils, big sodas
in every hand, rigged ring tosses
& a spectacular boardwalk next
to tea cup rides full of crying toddlers.
The circusness of it—sleight-of-hand,
weight-guessing shenanigans all over
the place. The last time I was there,
I tried to sneak onto a couples-only
ride solo & the two-toothed carney
taking tickets snatched me by my neck.
He said I was too lightweight to ride
alone & back then, he was probably right.
Another Ars Poetica
I was always anxious, always a little
twitchy in manic city sounds, tourist
cameras around every curious neck—
LA, Chicago, Frankfurt, it didn’t matter.
So many other cities to be in other than
the one I’m in. So far from the camouflage
of breeze-drunk agriculture lining every
Midwest street. Relentless cricket chatter
like a photographer’s shutter, camera
clicking the unnecessary caesuras
in all the poems these days & my mother’s
threats about fidgeting while the K-Mart
photographer resets. Always, a white sheet
behind retractable backdrop covered with
pumpkins & old corn stalks at the ledge
of the women’s clothing section. Sitting
on the edge of the seat, every snap costs
something & every redo cost even more.
