Monthly Archives: April 2013

Soccer Ball

At center of the pitch, resting gently
on the grass, waiting to be blasted passed
the opposing goalkeeper by either
team. So many hopes and dreams seem to lie,
to rest, on such a small air-bloated sphere.
Bets and bullets placed in hollowed chambers,
all because Colombia face us, or
Celtic meet Rangers on the weekend. It
all begins with little more than, “Don’t use
your hands,” but international demands
raise the stakes and wages, complicating
what started as love of the game. At a
certain age, though, it’s never the same. You’re
unhappy, and of course your team’s to blame.

Chekhov’s Gun Registration

It’s the most important rule of dramatic storytelling: before a gun is left
resting on the mantelpiece, or hanging on a wall or other inconspicuous
location at the start of the story, it must be properly registered, the characters having undergone thorough background checks before
obtaining such plot devices      and thereby        ensuring
the satisfactory resolution       of the story.        For while
it is true that the gun must       always go              off, it
must also do so with a                                           purpose, a
reason that enhances the story and ultimately delivers
some form of catharsis in
the form of a well-aimed
and well-regulated bullet.

Under Arbors

I flagged you down as I sat under the tree, waving my hand, flipping it, almost as if I were shoeing you away. But I didn’t need to do it, because I knew you’d seen me from nearly a block away. This is where we’d planned to meet. I’d be nowhere else.

“Hi,” I said, decisively.

You nodded.

“It’s been a while.”

“Only since the last time,” you said. And I knew you would say something exactly like that.

“How are…things?”

“Everything is great. I’m working a lot. I’m going in in a few hours.”

“On a Sunday.”

You nodded again.

“Wouldn’t you know.”

“You said you had something you needed to ask me,” you said. “Did you actually?”

“I’m not stalking you, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m here, aren’t I?”

There is one side of a wall you like to live on.  For a short time, I was on the other side of it. I’m not entirely certain what is there, especially looking back, nor am I sure if you were ever on the other side at the same time as me. But I do know I scaled you, with my ropes and my climbing gear and I jumped down, landing on my knees in a cloud of debris.

“I’m not really sure how to answer that,” I said.”

You took out a book. Began to read.

“Get off the top of the wall,” I said.

“Come back to life,” I said.

“Shit,” I said. “So long ago.”

Smoke Detector Spaceport

It hangs down, suspended into the air. Circles upon circles, the top (technically bottom) has two rectangular holes that look like windows. You lie back on the ground and spend time thinking about what conversations could be happening in a hub like that, attached to a larger ship or space station, isolated, hanging out, vulnerable to the vacuum. The vistas. The puffy jumpsuits. The cool, detached computer voice giving updates and alerts. The mundane commute from the rest of the complex. Wonder eventually replaced with banality.

You picture this, staring up at the ceiling, action figures of your mind acting out tiny scenarios. You do not think about it, but it feels like a better way to spend your afternoon than merely changing the batteries.

this is how your day is

sue makes a big old pot of coffee

and at 915 i’m a good boy i’m all no i don’t think so

and at 1015 i walk by and it’s still there and i think i can make it

and at 1130 i’m too busy to think about it

but by 1230 i get the agitateds

i get the shakes

and by 130 i struggle with this thing of willpower and sense of self

and by 230 i can’t take it no more

and by 330 it’s so stale and so cold and so dirty and i am thankful

Thermostat

This is the way we regulate body
temperature regulate regulate
and this is the way we maintain enough
stasis to remain undiscovered
and this is the way we control our own
small environments control our own small
environments control our own and this
is the way we convince others of our
sanity convince ourselves and this and
this is the way we lead our lives lead our
lives lead our lives and this is the way we
suffer through the day and this is the way
we suffer and this is every day
and this is so early in the morning.

Poem For Amanda Palmer

you don’t know that there are ways of responding to tragedy without being narcissistic and self-serving

you don’t know how a national crisis and the death of at least three innocent people could not be about you

you don’t know that you don’t need to take advantage of every single situation by turning it into another outlet for arrogant self-promotion that excuses itself from criticism by somehow pretending to be quote-unquote performance art

you don’t know how to stop

you don’t know what it’s like to live without the comfort net of privilege that has supported you your entire life

you don’t know why you have to keep explaining your art to people who just don’t get it

you don’t know how to explore the mind and perspective of an alleged killer in a provocative or intriguing way but you still insist on doing so

you don’t know that this isn’t about you

you don’t know that this isn’t about you

you don’t know that this isn’t about you

you don’t know that this isn’t about you