Like Asterisks
David Shook
The newspapers say you’re two packs a day
flavored like souvenir cigars: bus exhaust, fruit rot,
soured smoke of boiling hops, trash & burnt plastic
limited edition ash fall
*
You hide the city like
asterisks hide the us & is of
fucks & shits
like string bikinis cover nipples
a sheet-draped mass on the highway shoulder
*
Smog flags like riptide warnings at the beach:
stay indoors if red, walk if orange, light sports if
yellow, if green fine
never green
*
earwax gray,
mucus marbled black
David Shook is a poet, translator, and essayist whose work appears in magazines like Ambit, PN Review, Poetry, and World Literature Today. Kilometer Zero, a poetry documentary he covertly filmed in Equatorial Guinea, is forthcoming in 2012, along with his translation of Mario Bellatin’s Shiki Nagaoka: A Nose for Fiction. He lives in Los Angeles, where he edits Molossus. http://davidshook.net