By Peter Burzynski
Yesterday, I breathed in
and spit out metropolis.
Each braided glob
of fermented poutine
speaking sneakers
(they hurt one’s knees).
—
I was huffing the high
bridge all night, only
natural that bricks
should spill out. Each
street sign softly screams,
“I am the bastard child
of bronchitis!?” Hold on.
Let me catch my train.
—
Stand clear of the closing
doors, please. Man, stand
clear of these bullets,
this sneakster, the broccolied
toes of the sleeping man.
The rockster woman avoids
eyes like she were a hob-nobbing
lobbyist for the blind. Blonde,
I tried to regurgitate the city
for you, but it was broken.
—
It clung to slime. The sublime
lemon-lime hiss of orange
drums venting the storm —
stroked sewer broke open.
A heavy silo. It showed
the world that it once was
wise. Dear city, I picked
up two eye patches —
criss-crossed, identical.
I walked the street wide.
Peter Burzynski is a first-year PhD student in Creative Writing-Poetry at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. He holds a BA from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, an MFA in Poetry from The New School University, and an MA in Polish Literature from Columbia University. In between his studies, he has worked as a sous-chef in New York City and Milwaukee. His poetry has appeared in The Best American Poetry, Kritya, Bar None Group, Zombie Logic Review, as well as in the Fuck Poems Anthology with poems forthcoming from BORT quarterly and the Great Lakes Review.
