Stop calling us that awful nickname, Tragic-Stan.

Before we change our name to Tragic-Stan,
I'll move my birthday to December of 1973.
Throw opulent, deplorable parties
away from powerhouses and explosive plants.
Make strong, sharp drinks for suited strongmen.
Maybe rescue fair trade maiden men before the gathering unravels.
 

After we’re called Tragic-Stan,
I’ll fall in love with a homeowner called a man of leisure.
Escape traffic on the weekends to a beachy safe house
Drink Japanese tea out of glass mugs
in an aubergine robe--
a pointed hood on top, under
a Hungarian dog Velcroed to my coppered collarbone.
 

While enmeshed in Tragic-Stan,
I will find a fallen, leisurely loved candidate.
He lives in an airplane hanger under a bridge,
hangs some Slim Aarons image on 18 ft tall walls.
No fear for the future because his blood breathed wall street.
Such a funny lie,
mentioning a mother from Uganda and father from Sweden
when he is actually Korean.
 

Soon, I'm sorry, we will all be trapped in Tragic-Stan,
a land littered with features you could vaguely recognize.
An expressionless face you cannot place
meeting, maybe believing the antagonist.
Someone you have never met,
perhaps once distantly envisioned in a rejected Hollywood script.
Too unbelievable to be all that
ruinous for the destitute,
or rejoiced by the demonic.
 

Once we are flailing in Tragic-Stan,
I will weep. melodramatically, obviously…
Then prop myself up, in an impressive posture
at the helm large lifeboat, sickening the shallow sea.
Designing buoyant, eco-friendly products for everyone
who stood in the wrong line, under pre-fact signs.
 

Unmoored between two worn out continents,
we will spit, wave, and say to the name ‘Farewell, Tragic-Stan!"
The former bureau captain’s skull,
thrashing at the figurehead
will anchor our embarkment.
Full of cabin pressure, all of us agonized, pressed for time,
we will dock, disembark and fear all the far-out worlds we never once conjured up.
 

They will wax and wane, varnish and seal
the once unrevivable.
Then polish the fears
once only relived as silver screen disasters.
Now it’s a set on a relentlessly off track act,
drawing us to the edge of our seats for the curtain call.
While we skim the surface for a beacon signal,
chomping at the bit on popcorn kernels.
In the midst of a frigid turbulence shaking,
ripples of icebergs waving
demarcate the points of every end.
 

Now all that’s left to do is share our pithy, terrible reviews.
In this choppy sea, hoisting up our current production,
the verdict in a water bottle floats by:
“This voyage’s forecast is a washout.
The riptide is a rainstorm.”
 

Before the deluge sets in,
we’re left fending off uncommon obstacles from the spar deck.
Channels tangled in low knots,
so rough they blocked our passage,
powered by a motor too unpredictable to dock.
Siphoning us apart, off far from any safe spot.
 

  https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/5ng17w/the_earth_the_oak_tree/dcddsj6/ https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/5nmls0/sommelier/dce2imo/