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April 4, 2010

I’m writing a poem a day for the month of April! See them here, maybe on LJ, and on Facebook. Feedback welcome. Here’s the first 3…

Hoppy Hour

Drinking John Mayer’s Patroń in my living room,
with a girl on every couch,
my mouth swivels and my throat sluices like the Tin-Man.
On the stove is rabbit stew, in my teeth,
a platinum alcohol swimming over my enamel like money.

Becca’s on the saw bowing herself transcendent
while Ben proffers the banjo in one hand
celebrity thievery in another
and our senses warm to amber in the cinnamon light.
We talk to the animals.
They have been fighting again.
They tell us they are swiping because we made a calendar of them
captioned their photos with hilarious misspellings.
We can have cheeseburgers they say.
We know.

Living rooms of overall-clad burlesque dancers
are rare and toothy.
Tonight bluegrass whips us and warms us,
laughter makes us loved when we are not sure we believe it.
Tonight, we drink what we can,
all the risk, all the dead-ends jobs melting like cubes in the glass
our tongues gurgling sweetly round fame.

(p.s. I really was drinking Patron stolen from John Mayer’s dressing room tonight. My life is that strange.)



In It

My parents minivan was always a giant eggplant.
When summer began, the door always fell off in the rain.
A lot of things never bent back.
A lot of spoons I knew turned to looking over their shoulders
cataloguing mistakes, hatching bedposts
with misplaced glory.

I grew up inside a red nylon tent.
My brother and I called it Red-World.
My parents lived in Grey-World.
Grey-World was bigger
it zipped shut against the rain.

Lately, I’ve been tight as a harpsichord
wired to a drum-machine in February,
tight as a greeting card stanza,
tight as the molecules of every window.

Old glass, the ripple kind, is filled with lead.
Red-World had a window of plastic sheeting
it smelled like Canada
Canada smelled like the good life.
The moose there hung around with passive danger,
and a sound like antler on wood stays with you,
echoes outside of the forests,
and summer has always been a let down.

School hallways were full of clattering hooves.
They came at me, important as Paris,
loud as Prague,
every entryway a dark tooth of thronged normal,
pawing the linoleum with it’s scent of belonging,
and I was in a bubble smelling like Michigan,
a dirt bank of sneaker ripping through the rain-flap
eating cheese in the hall in my bowl-cut
wanting the universe that rushed from the car-top carrier with a hatchet crash
a small pink thing
with a tongue that could bend across the highway.


You are blank as the Huron on a Tuesday.
When I told you I am on fire, you said
Well, I can offer you some money to shovel in your mouth
but not a bit more sleep.

What I really need is to find that blue pen.
I could also use some cilantro,
a good recipe for rabbit stew,
because it’s almost Easter
and my friends are the strangest chanters of forgotten
or misled or tossed aside religions,
quivering their toes in high-tops under heavy desks at offices,
internet tickling us from productivity till our palms ache.

Back before work claimed us,
the bar had high ceilings, It was a dandelion bloom.
South Main held our adolescence with rattlecan soaked fingers,
streaking us with the colors
it didn’t care to paint with,
we were worthless canvases
waiting to become something,
empty wallets, our limbs billfolding into our futures
and we could only draw in charcoal
only eat pears,
we were always exploding back then,
collapsing at the Fleetwood Diner
giggling and giggling in the most distrustful way
the waitress eyeing us
clutching her tips like savannah meat
her big paws curling into her jaws,
pennies dribbling out
like grease.

One Comment leave one →
  1. May 29, 2010 1:42 am

    Wow am I really the first comment to this great article?!?

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