A poem by Ben Doller

Turbocharged Direct Injection

• times poetry seems insufficient,
• say in the morning, swaddled
• in poly, contorting to prove your
• recollections exist in alphabetical
• order, or distinguishing you, you
• are free and capable of feeling total
• betrayal, not from a being but
• from a conglomerate, one who
• has deluded not only you, but
• has recognized and capitalized
• on the cliché of you, fingerprinted
• and isolated the demographic
• you, you crave the instant pick-up
• but also a breathing destination,
• at least the gesture towards it,
• the semaphore waving off smoke,
• the hygienic growl that you
• ache to pay for, a target for
• the money you make, the way
• you vote each day for monopolies
• to stamp your organs with insignias,
• representative republic you,
• into the cell wall it goes, it goes
• deep, a personal tenth of a ton
• and counting of NOx, branded
• by loyalty and counting, particulates
• and participles and how does
• one weigh black gas, you guess
• you invest, you ingest, you just
• get it, you look (it) up, I guess
• I need poetry to call terrible
• things by longer lovelier names.

Ben Doller’s most recent book of poems is Fauxhawk (Wesleyan University Press). Together with the poet Sandra Doller, he wrote the collaborative memoir, The Yesterday Project (Sidebrow Books). He is an Associate Professor in the Literature Department at UCSD.