At the beginning of the month, Terry gave collaborating poet Sesshu Foster four writing prompts. Sesshu engaged in fevered writing with each of them and gave the results back to Terry, who then used the words from that fevered writing to create this dis•articulations poem.
HELL’S ZIP CODE
A letter carrier in Koreatown
dreams of women, bodies dark as tobacco
dreams of resistance, of granite and flood.
The hour is apocalyptic.
Money and fire are killing us.
Union Station decaying, no train of thoughts
will leave this afternoon, no great distance will
be covered, now the terminal is burning.
We sought a damp, vacuous sleep.
We awakened to slavery.
In Mexico City, NY, LA— we’re
rolling through markets of the colonizers
surrounded by dead, Eurocentric thinkers.
Where do we exit this head space?
Where is the clock forgotten?
Across this continent females and males no
longer couple, busy themselves annexing
the lonely minutes, but there’s no where to park.
We no longer see the other
across canyons of sentiment.
Spanish broom rises over the mountains, but
we can’t drive there anymore, no vehicle,
no gas. No place not covered in black asphalt.
What is your vision worth to you,
already dispelling in clouds?
It’s the cumulus that leaves me furious.
Is this a prelude to light, or are we like
the thin dogs that wander the pitted highway?
We flit within parameters;
got a ticket but can’t take flight.
The letter carrier will not open this
hand-made letter to herself, delivered in
blue notes from her faded memory, her dreams.