Jeff Alessandrelli

“The problem of America is my body.”—Alice Notley

Every gustatory pleasure

is a field

that will one day fail

to provide pasture.

Or

I’m worried

about my belly fat again,
home alone every night,   

dusting,
doing dishes,
my 31st winter.

Noisier the leaves

seem to get

the deeper into November

one goes,

muddier the sun. 

Suddenly under-

dreaming

my days away,

all worthwhile interests

waning,

my favorite book

merely                      

the girl with the best breasts

in the neighborhood,

the only poem

that tempts me

her boyfriend

working out in his apartment

in the gloaming’s half-light,

his phosphorescent 6 pack abs. 

Insomnia’s eternity,

glutton for drudgery,

hours later I’m up

before dawn,

thinking about the sign

outside my favorite taqueria

that reads

No Shirt, No Shoes, No Problem;

the way the shards of afternoon

sun seem

to make it glow

neon-bright.

Masticatingly,

I sit at my corner table for hours,

ignoring the herds of cars and buses 

that pass by and pass on.  

Outside Los Gorditos this afternoon

the problem of America is my body

but inside I am swallowing

so many different poisons

at such breakneck speed

as to actualize myself

invincible. 

Then it matters little

how important my mouth is

to my throat, my lips

to my gums, the charbroil-seared

sound of my voice

to my belly’s girth.

Walking home at dark,

noisier the leaves seem to get

with each step.

And pockmarked and pristine,

looming larger and larger,

the moon.