S a l l i e F u l l e r t o n —

Popular Science 

The airport kiosk is entirely self-serve so too

are the restaurants, which wait patiently

as screens.

I had been thinking of life like an ice sculpture 

that melted and disfigured into new

mutilations which sometimes were beautiful; that balded

one’s essence and became slick

and I was right. 

Time was on my side:

I could order whenever.

Or

as I walked the street, tar was burning

through my rubber shoe. It came up

towards my foot imperceptibly

until my gait changed, deepened and was

uneven. 

I am certain of you, of the nightmare

in which you betray me bluntly 

then wake in early light

(brighter, somehow, from behind blackout curtains)

begging still for coffee. 

“Onion-like space explosion” 

got buried again today despite its flashy

graphic. A new star

is not relevant. Start small; make moves

in silence.

Mine are so vague

you can’t look directly at them.

Our sun can be 

a piece of nothing to fidget with while we wait

or a secondary character whose presence was balancing

the whole production,

unknowingly,

until they died. 

Or

The Big Bucks HD console vibrating to give the sensation

of firing a real gun. Two men are shooting at the bar

in broad daylight, killing bucks

or male animals. The player loses a point when he shoots a doe

or female animal.

The men sweared at each other—

“fuck you” and the plastic went 

thrumming.  

All of this could occur within the frame of a day

not to mention all the satellite 

fits of language I didn’t think

to tune to.

I hate being stuck on a particular thought, waiting around

so the poem spools and catches in self-

conscious ways. I’d like to

hold you at the elbow, fingers extended

towards a sun 

Or 

to what you will never know

what I am closer to knowing

wiser now

by virtue of being alive.

.