Tag Archives: Thanksgiving

Stuffing

We played soccer while the turkey slow cooked,
with the Mexicans from the kitchen who
half wanted to celebrate their newfound
Americanness and half were happy
just to have a full day off finally.
We watched football later in the day and
wondered if there were more traditional
sports that could be played, the Pilgrims’ ping-pong,
Columbus’ lacrosse, a Viking type
of tennis, snowballs thrown over the bow
of a long ship after a lengthy trip
into the unknown, some ancient native
game, perhaps, something lost forever to
time and race and smallpox and translation.

China Cabinet

You can look, but don’t touch, and never eat
from the surface of what’s inside this carved
wooden centerpiece, glass pane fronted to
display ceramic patterns with gorgeous
inlay, expensive, or at least old, or
probably both, the whole situation
susceptible to swift devastation
via an earthquake, a stiff breeze, or an
overactive rug rat’s run, bump, and smash.
(“Honest, it fell over when the door slammed!”)
The intersection of form and function,
but one of the roads is closed except for
special occasions, a dedicated
parade route; giant box of horns to toot.

Post-Turkeypocalypse

Ambling sloth-like through the wasteland, breathing in a noxious haze of tryptophan and sickly sweet liquor, I plod past the pestilent pond of porcelain piled high in endless pillars, towards the puddles of putrid fat liquidized and pooling on the plates, once poured steaming over broken bones now dripping down the drain while the last vestiges of flesh hang threadbare off that osseous matter. Small hands have left their mark behind them, stained and sliding down the wall as if grasping for some invisible rungs to rescue them from wrath. Meanwhile, that gelatinous glob of congealed red mass continues to vellicate on the floor, a ceaseless tremor that suggests its sentience. Yet somehow, the empty glass and glasses have survived the slaughter mostly intact, only weathered and worn by overuse though now dirty, discarded and disheveled down among the grateful undead whose virile corpses litter the living room furniture until such time tomorrow that consumption might continue.

What’s Down

It’s the little things, like the sudden urge to use
pepper spray as an inhaler.  Like realizing that smile
is your new gag reflex.  Starting the purge
before the binge.  Opening your eyes to see you were
never awake in the first place.  Screaming until
your jaw dislocates.  Swallowing that hole you
want to punch through the wall.  It’s Thanksgiving weekend
hop-scotching families: Friday in the psych ward, Saturday
at a funeral.  Rufus Wainwright and his broken
Hallelujah.  Dwelling on someone you thought
would be the only one, wishing he wasn’t
lost to a carbon copy of yourself.  Knowing,
the last time you felt like this,
he was here for you.

And I Felt Like a Goddamn Bullet

Rowing course
Driving down
Arms, tense
Oar popped from water
Seat on wheels beneath

Inertia steering
We glide, focus
Head’s crown
Willing body mass
To a pin point

Perfect balance

In mind, memory
The oar
Skimming water
As we wheel this free ride
To the top of the cycle

Legs drive
Blade drops
We strike
All this
Through 2000 meters

In some six minutes
Hearing
Lock
Load
Fire

And I felt like a goddamn bullet.