Monthly Archives: December 2009

81 gods

So here I am, making my way out to Virginia by train via Mobile.  Louisa, Virginia.  There is no found record as to the origin of the town’s name, but it had an infamous ordinary, which in the late 1700’s stood for a housing of just about everything; tavern, circuit court, trading post, rooming house, mail service etc. all in one building.  What is recorded, among quite a bit outside its naming, is that the Marquis de Rochambeau, on his way to Monticello, termed it the worst lodging he’d found in all America.  Further investigation into the to-be-town’s immovable landlord and good-for-nothing wife serves to prove the Marquis’s calling it such.

Louisa is where a group of Vietnam War re-enactors gather to well, in my opinion, engage in the scrupulously unthinkable.  None of these people are veterans of any foreign war, though there may be others like myself, but I have doubts.  I can’t see a vfw outside of my position wanting anything to do with such a boondoggle.  The slap-shod organizers don’t know I belong to the 1-9 Cav and if I have it my way they’ll never find out.  I won’t be crawling through a pine forest to prove a point.  I’ll be there to connect in some psychotic way to someone I recently proclaimed as just that.

I believed wrongly that my control had been as lost as it ever would during contact and clearance over jungle and brown water.  Every element of life since return was under the strictest top, with a little room for air, or error, until he decided to join up.  Now there’s a second Funk in the 1-9, charged with improving quality of life for Iraqi civilians.  His unit is much of the time dismounted in urban terrain, and control, for the little in hindsight it’s worth, laughs back from the fake world I made for it.

Clues, other than the fact he was mine, existed.  Through school, and I can only imagine where else, he was the one who ended any skirmish.  He was strong and smart, which made him ripe for picking idiots off of one another and holding them stateless.  I stood paralyzed following a fight in which his cousin attacked him; the only time I ever saw him engaged.  Some men, when pulled off of another, slink under wiser arms.  Some yell out but muster little strength.  My son, as he was dragged off, held a concentrated and wild gaze to his foe, his hands outstretched as if a toy had been unwittingly yanked from their grasp.

Eighty-one gods of war now sway mercy over him as they strive to show none.  There shouldn’t be so many.  How does a man keep his child from what he’s made of?  Maybe I’ll turn around in Louisa.  Maybe I just needed to move a bit.  No use in going to find what I’ve already got.  No use in pretending.  He won’t be there.  He’s right here and we can head back together.

On Getting Old

So, Adam Brody turned thirty today,
even though he was in high school only
two years ago, in Newport Beach, planning
trips to Mexico, Comic-Con, and the
Vegas with his fake brother Ben. When
was the last time you listened to Phantom
Planet and didn’t think of Seth Cohen?

He was on an episode of Undressed,
that’s how old he is. He was in the first
season of Smallville (he’s almost as old
as Tom Welling for God’s sake). He was in
movies with Kristen Stewart before she
started dating dead people, and even
knew Brangelina before the babies.

He also had a recurring role on
Gilmore Girls, making him the most widely
recognized actor in shows college girls
watched when they were in high school. Good to know,
Brody, if you ever decide to get
married, there’s a whole generation of
once-underage girls who still adore you.

I hope by the time I turn thirty I’m
half as lucky, and throngs of adoring
fans worship my sarcasm, praise my dark
features, put nerdy posters of me up
on their dorm walls, too. It won’t be my looks,
poets aren’t usually sexy,
though we do tend to get better with age.

Oh, Sweet Nuthin’!

He parted his lips—
not for a kiss, but to tell her how
she looked her most majestic
in the shadows, her naked flesh, pearled
white with spots of sweat, glowing softly
in the luminescent blue of the room,
or in the deepest, cleanest ocean,
naked limbs pretzel’ed all around
each other. Tangled; intertwined.
A place where even moonlight
couldn’t be itself, but bursting
streams of sunlight, rolled and wrapped
around celestial cratered curves, barely
permeating through her thick
navy curtains. When he caught
that soft glimmer, he wanted to
tell her how he gleaned himself
through her eyes, how for once
he admired his own face
when he found it
reflected in her deep, dark,
dilated pupils, and for what
he hoped that she herself
had seen in his. But all
she heard was, “You
look better with
the lights

brown bag book cover…

I dreamt last night that we were infinite,

As if mathematics could somehow prove we were real…

As if our square root could undo lifetimes worth of                                     uncommon denominators and imaginary numbers.

If I had only remembered the remainder, something                                     different would have occurred.

A new product would have been found

I dreamt last night that long division was as complicated as life gets,

and that real love was as simple as 3rd grade romance.

But when I woke up your eyes reminded me that I never passed calculus

As that you were made of cos’s and sins.

So I put my head back on my textbook pillow

and decided to give me calculator away…

I never liked math anyway.

co-written years ago with the very talented Sydney Roberts.

ThisThat Recall

This is 508 words, but it’s tall like a flag pole and would take up too much space so as to possibly push someone else’s work right off our page.

Also {plug alert} should anyone be in the mood to see reallyreally good mixed media in los angeles monday evening…CTA.  A scene i wrote is being staged as part of the show; wouldn’t throw ya to the wolves unless i was part of the pack.

Cougar Lessons

from Haikougar by Brian P. McGackin

Cougar seduction
is not to be attempted
by the weekend flirt.

A strong commitment
is necessary to bag
a fine specimen.

Wingmen, normally
helpful, are discourage, since
they scare away prey.

The first step is to
determine the hunting grounds
in your area.

Once you’ve discovered
your cougar den, be patient:
wait for the right one.

And by “the right one”
I mean the hottest bitch you
can possibly find.

Age, intelligence,
nationality—none of
that dumb shit matters.

Ann Coulter is a
right-wing conservative nut,
but I’d still do her.

You must put away
these trivial thoughts if you
want to cougar hunt.

If you HAVE to know
her age, ask her where she was
when Kennedy died.

Hopefully she says,
“I was just a baby then,”
or “Wasn’t born yet.”

Teri Hatcher is
the perfect cougar: still hot,
born in ’64.

She’s just old enough
to be labeled a cougar,
but still looks damn good.

The older they are
the hotter they have to be
(or don’t tell your friends).

A cougar over
sixty is fine, as long as
she’s Helen Mirren.

Otherwise, don’t waste
your time, ‘cus seriously,
that’s fucking gross, man.


And so I thought, “If a picture paints a thousand words, how many does a song paint?” and went with that. I’ve been meaning to write more music lately, but I’ve also had a lot on my mind about the way that words work in music, as opposed to poetry. Unlike poems, which are often enhanced by specifics, song lyrics in general tend to rely on pronouns and ambiguity, allowing the listener to apply his or her own meaning to the words. Sometimes, even the cheesiest, most apoetic lines sound profound, and that’s what I tried to do here (I used to write lyrics like “translucent and impermanent,” but that never got me anywhere); I tried writing on 3 different topics at once, intentionally leaving it vague so that a listener might bring him or herself into it. An MP3 should be posted by the end of the day (Eastern Standard time). Unless I get drunk and forget, which is entirely possible.

For forty days, I fasted you,
Liquid sustenance to help me make it through.
A friend of fire, burning with desire, yours and mine,
but this water keeps on turning into wine

Spent forty nights awake through this,
Starved for comfort, stars, and every goodbye kiss.
This desert bed, these grains of sand where I should rest my head, just like a fool,
a wanderer with nothing left to lose.

Ooh, you carry this around
Ooh, I bury myself deeper underground
Ooh, your voice the only sound that I can hear
It echoes every time you disappear

Ooh, I carry this around
Ooh, you bury yourself deeper underground
Ooh, your voice the only song I want to hear
and I found it on the day you disappeared

For forty days, I fasted you,
Liquid sustenance to help me make it through.
If you never hear a word of this again, let’s make it clear
that I lost you on the day I disappeared.