Monthly Archives: July 2011

Morning Movie Madness

The meth monkeys
are piloting the spaceship again.

Suddenly, it occurs to me
that I can see every sick pet
and every heartsick owner
within the walls of Angell Memorial.
I can see cages, donated towels
with threadbare patches,
and worry lines etched into
foreheads. I see hands twisting
in laps and abandoned aged
magazines, crinkled ads
for flea collars.

It’s too much to absorb
so I cross the street
even though my destination
is on the same side
as Angell Memorial.

I can’t turn it off; the meth monkeys
have full control of the in-flight
entertainment this morning.
I have to let the film play to the end,
to reach its icky conclusion
before I can slump, weepy
and exhausted, on my therapist’s
couch and tell him how much
sleep I’m getting or not getting,
if I’m doing everything he tells
me to do, steadfastly avoiding
talk of this morning’s movie madness.

Because that’s crazy, right?

Twenty-Seven Club

The Rolling
Stones lost Brian Jones,
To death by misadventure.

You’ve got Hendrix
Burning midnight lamps,
With pills and wine and such,

Your Joplin and your Morrison
Checked out from hotel floors
And all within two years –

Come on guys, heroin?

How ’bout a couple beers.
I think James Dean
Made the scene,

Cutting out at twenty-four,
He made dying early
Look too cool,

He’d opened up the door,
For Kurt Cobain and stomach pain,
Shooting his way out.

Another expiration date
Now that Winehouse
Joined the train,

Hey all you rock-and-roller types,
Instead of veins or brains or drains,
Aim for twenty-eight.

Making room

Our mother is too young
to care for – and yet,
there she is, her suitcase at her feet,
her only company.
Look inside,
there is everything she owns:
Those capris with cherries on the butt
that look like jeans on her;
Jergens lotion, cherry-almond;
those off-brand, fake fur-lined boots
she made me buy her before heading back
to Hawaii.
These and other things accompany her
from island to island to mainland.

It is just a bigger island, I remember
my uncle saying, accent-heavy
and sweaty from eating all that pig,
eyes and bones left, nothing else.

Shit For Brains

She drops memories like tiny
shits behind her where she
walks, a trail of small,
hard excess condensed into
pellets and buried beneath
her bedding at dusk. And
when she wakes, aroused
by tunes, or the crinkled
sound of sunburnt prunes,
the rest of her remembers
in its actions — thumbless
hands supporting chins,
the precious cuddling of
dust upon her pelt, the
endless fights for sustenance
against her sibling rival.
But still there’s something
missing in her muscles
when she sleeps, the only
thing remembering the warmth
her mind won’t keep.

Interstate Eighty (East)

The road hypnotizes.
Sure, cars blur
Dotted lines into straight,
And the transport trucks

Are like Stormtroopers
With their mystery freight,
It’s when yonder
Distant windmills turn

Dizzy penguins
That you wonder,
Their arms a-spinning,
How long you’ve been driving

And when these breeze-flappers
Powering the nation
Will be
At every gas station,

All this
While driving
The Interstate Eighty,

62 Prospect

scrubbing off nail polish
when he walks in
his voice is static, paper thin
his seduction is transparent-

summer nights are fans
and that sticky place behind my knees
I discover after I sit a while.
The bead of unearned sweat slides between the blades
of my
tracing spine

Broetry Slam Video

The week Broetry came out, Quirk Books held a Broetry Slam at National Mechanics in Philadelphia. They have recently sent me a video documenting the hilarity.

Also, a haiku:

Me author now.
Me speak pretty words. Me write
pretty words. You buy?