Monthly Archives: March 2011

Homemade Satellite

Tin cans and string fly,

Four fridges strapped together,

Spring launches dream, see?

Fun

ya
ya fun
fun ball bounce
round hole square peg
bright color finger paint toy
store candy store more more fun
fun theme park jungle gym arcade stay
up late baseball cards bike rides summer sky
manhunt fireflies freeze tag sleepovers all night fun fun

boys
fun fun

girls
girls fun
fun first date
hold hands first kiss
tell your friends first base
first car girlfriend curfew senior prom
love yea yea vote porn sex cigarettes
move on still young college girl fun fun

yeah yeah
fun fun cue ball
side pocket scratch scratch get that
checked don’t look back late night every night
morning after always wonder you missed all this fun fun

69 Love Songs

I awoke to the pungent smell of sweat, come, and Febreze. It reminded me of freshly chopped sweet onions, and it burned my weary eyes all the same. In the distance, I could hear the reverberated decay of stubby, clumsy fingers sliding heavily against nickel-wound strings. I glanced the room, but it wasn’t until I saw the posters on the wall that I fully remembered what happened the night before: Fight Club, Pulp Fiction, Animal House, all the classic male masturbation fantasies. And I’d fallen for the same old shit again.

I grabbed an oversized Boston University hoodie from his pile of clothes nearby, and after I was (mostly) certain it was cleaned, I pulled it on over my head. I was never one for cuddling with strangers that I had just met at the bar, but I wasn’t comfortable leaving the room in nothing but last night’s wrinkled clothes. I squeezed into my jeans and left to find the bathroom.

“I’m sorry; did I wake you up?” he asked, before I’d even step completely of the bedroom doorway. He was sitting on a worn out grey-brown couch, strumming an acoustic guitar.

“Oh, no. No, not at all,” I said, not entirely confident in my ability to lie this early in the morning.

“That’s good. I was just working on a song I’ve been writing. But I figured I should let you sleep.” Then, a carefully calculated pause, as if the idea had just suddenly come. “Hey — would you want to hear it?”

I had the feeling that even if I said “no,” he would have played it anyway, but I didn’t want to be rude.

And when you said that things were different,” he sang, “I thought that we could stay the same / but even on the darkest mornings / you know the stars still light up your name…

I immediately wished that I had been rude. But still he kept singing:

But baby, it’s a brand new world / I hope you’ll make it for me / Baby, won’t you give it a whirl? / Just let your heart go free / and stay with me…

I suddenly regretted hooking up with about 85% of the guys I met in college. Still, here I was at 27, and somehow in my inebriation, I had fallen for the same old crap. Sure — in my sobriety, if you can call the morning that, I could see it for what it was. But apparently I regressed 7 years last night.

“Hey, I should actually get going…” I interrupted, as politely as I could. “I’ve got this, umm —”

“Oh, well — can you at least stay for breakfast? It’s just about done. Do you like bacon?”

Suddenly, the morning after didn’t seem so bad.

Roud 1173

a toast of jameson at the grave
plastic cups a quarter full of
brilliantine amber all around me
as we sing the wild rover and
for the briefest of seconds I forget
that I’m supposed to refuse the cup
proffered

we usher our dead through
with tears and poitín
and my hand grasps at air
as I stare at blanched ground
thinking I’ve betrayed my own

an old man next to me
elbows my arm
and whispers

sometimes it’s better NOT to drink

and he hoists his empty hand
to the sky – sláinte – and beams

Time Spent With You

Moon,
Owl in the sky
God of the night
Creator of Time

And our perception of it
The way
A mark on a workbench
Becomes a measuring stick
Becomes
A
Benchmark,
We line up splitseconds
With your eclipse
Of our
Sun,
Until
It becomes
Our only one,
Faith
At the end
Of an eyelash,

An Eclipse,
A split-second’s
Benchmark,

A unique,
Planetary
Birthmark.

Speaking in tongues

An old, old poem reproduced here to avoid skipping a week. Oh, how I miss old, poetic, angsty me.

It isn’t fair to use phrases such as
“all the men I’ve loved,”
but I use them anyway.
I assume things about their women – both
past and present tense. I am
ruthless and discriminating,
I crawl in tall grass and exhale,
rumbling and guttural.
I lie in this leftover queen-sized bed,
head down, eyes closed,
and blame each of them
by name.

Redoubt

I wasted eleven and a half weeks
digging fortifications around Bill
the Stratovolcano, but found I still
could not defend his smoothly crafted peaks

from cultural bores pouring down the hills,
hordes ignoring nature in his shadow.
A slowly constructed vertical ode,
Bill is rock’s poem, but miners can drill

more than dirt and ore. Captain of the snow-
masted skyships, Bill commands a grand view
of the broader cosmic ocean, but few
pirating here would notice. They feign no

divine justice, experience or clout;
sentences are delivered by readout.