Mathew Serback

HURT ME SOUL

Stay out of this poem. It does not involve you. I do not want you in my poem, understand? I want to keep you out of the poem. I love to keep you out of the obstruction of the truth, out of the construction of the loose ends, and out of the intricate details of my foolproof plan.

This is my poem.

I have to keep you out of this poem

because we are within earshot of the shots that match the flashes – flashes – flashes of light around the car while the woman in the apartment above the basketball court screams

like she is the one who has been shot:

Do I need to call for help?

Do I need to call for help?

Do I need to call for help?

Damn, bitch, remix it, at least.

To my poetry teacher, I write around here, the money changes its name // ashamed to be associated with us.

I do not tell the whole truth.

Around here, they call women bitches, and they call the men bitches too. The children die of hunger, waiting for something of substance. Around here, you notice the holes: potholes, plotholes, and bullet holes that smell like lead. No one seems concerned with the other holes: not the ones in our hearts and not the ones they bury us in.

The woman above the basketball sings to her phone about the bullets – bullets – bullets that left holes – holes – holes in the side of the building.

Brrt // Brrt

The reverberation of bass from Mikey's car speakers causes the trunk to brrt // brrt rhythmically against the ass end of the car as someone gets dumped on the hood – on your hood, on your hood – while the other one runs – get him, that way – until the woman above the basketball court crescendos – they're coming, they're coming – and I see the boy's face – he's a kid, he's a fucking kid – I scream because I know

we are supposed to kill him,

but I want him to live – he's a fucking kid, fuck, a fucking kid – the sirens spray the night with noise, as my friends tower over the body – I don't know him, I don't know him

- and, now,

you never will.

MR.AMERICAN DREAM

I call the system

by its given names

like gringo or cracker.

Their programming tells me to love

a Nike check mark more than the people

making the clothing in sweat-

shop factories,

and the people that make it

out of the handful of blocks

where you die

over a Nike check mark.

My uncle visits from prison

to dump out bag after bag

of bootleg check marks

and designer clothes that were nothing

more than t-shirts from K-Mart

with a logo ironed on them.

My stolen youth smells

like stolen merchandise

that my family still couldn't afford

Daddy reminds me of the safe

he stole from the apartment

across the way,

which made it okay and seem further

away – in a different neighborhood

and not here

where no one warned me

that someone would try to kill me

for my Starter Jacket. No one told me

not to square up and fight

for the fifty dollar shoes I still couldn't afford

to lose. The system full of

shit and gringos and crackers left me

with bruises. My daddy left me

with bruises. My mother watched

from the shadows and told me to stop

crying –

You're only making it worse

for yourself.

As my daddy

beats me, I drift

into mother's eyes

and never stop

making it worse

for myself.

 THE HISTORY OF THE WORST SIX FLAGS' ROLLER COASTER AS A METAPHOR FOR OUR LOVE

://Saint Petersburg, RUSSIA

Katalnaya Gorka chases the Russian

mountains that turn to waves

and thrash us

about the sky.

Rip through a slipstream,

loop, swoop, and pull –

a child learning to lie

to their shoes.

Your gas tank

heart runs on empty.

You take me out

to the pasture where the old,

orphaned dogs

go to dig

their last hole.

:// Champs-Élysées, FRANCE

Everyone looks

like they are walking

on water when they are sky

walking with the lush, green-

fingered gods that raise

the symmetrical beds of flowers

we use to hold

our vomit after losing

our stomach – and lunch –

to gravity.

://Copenhagen, DENMARK

The rich make laws

about attraction. The only law that matters

to us is about inertia.

I lose another day's worth

of meals to the centrifugal loops

and can't help

but never feel upside-down

because the look in your eyes

turns me right-side up.

From the safety

of the ground, you help me do backbends

and untangle my intenstines.

:// Summit Hill, OHIO

Objects in your sunglasses look closer

than they are. I call the capitalist pigs

capitalist pigs

and laugh before following the canaries

my father warned me about.

Choking through soot, we roar

down the track

through throngs

of onlookers. Chasing speeds, angling

the corners of darkness

before burning brightly

into the sky, yelling

AMERICAN'S DON'T STEAL –

                                                            THEY BORROW!

:// Melbourne, AUSTRALIA

The doctor slaps wooden slats

and medal rods around your spine.

Sturdy.

They told me how the coaster hurt,

jerked, and ejected you.

In the hospital room, I laugh

because I am naive

enough to think you are

probably the first person to die

on the roller coaster.

:// Brooklyn, NEW YORK – Altantic City, NEW JERSEY

You can only do much begging

of sky gods and rock lords

before I take you

into my own hands, pull on your neck

and spine, to get things back

into the right place.

://The Fourth Dimension, CALIFORNIA – Montreal, QUEBEC

They run rods perpendicular to each other so that it spins – without a counterweight – for what must feel like,

infinity,

you say.

Mathew Serback is but a freckle of sand until - KRAKOW!- lightning strikes and a gentle fulgurite awakens. He advocates for eating the rich, public libraries, and mental health. "The First Great American Novel" is available at most book retailers. His short works have appeared in such great publications as The Under Review, Bruiser, and Literary Orphans.