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A Fantastical Trip Through the World You Know
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Eighth Grade Talent Show
Abigail brought a horse to school.
One of those miniature ones that stop at the waist,
but aren’t ponies.
You know what I mean.
Brian, Chris, and I spent all of first and second period
(and some of third)
peering over office divider walls,
rubberneckers desperate for a glimpse of Ed,
which is what we called him.
When Abigail noticed us,
we would duck down and go quiet,
master spies caught in the act,
and wait, sometimes for entire
minutes, spent giggling through pursed lips,
before poking our heads out again.
After a lunch spent loudly denouncing
any semblance of sanity
between mouthfuls of mashed potatoes,
we were herded to the auditorium.
We filed in,
whispers of Pokemon cards and themed dances
drifting on BO-rich air.
Abigail and Ed were already on stage.
She told us to be quiet,
no clapping.
“You’ll scare him,”
she said.
Then she started singing.
You could hear the nerves catching between her teeth
as she struggled to push the words
“a horse is a horse, of course, of course”
out from their hiding place at the back of her throat.
Ed just kind of stood there.
When she was done, she walked offstage
to nothing but the clip-clopping
of Ed’s miniature feet.
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Mastering the Art of Day Drinking
At 11:30 AM on a Wednesday
make sure to stress yourself out.
Dwelling on just about any part of your life
for longer than fifty-three seconds should do it,
but if you’re about to graduate college
without a steady source of income
in a field that hasn’t hired anyone since they realized
we’d all do it for free,
that’ll make it that much easier.
Fail to reach out to people
who told you they would be there for you
no matter what,
because you’re afraid that as soon as you take them up
on their generous offer,
they’ll change their minds
and rightfully so.
Again, neglecting pretty much any support system will do,
but if you happen to live with a girl
who drives you to comic book stores
whenever you ask her to
and watches anime with you
even though she isn’t really that into it,
ignoring her
will be particularly effective.
Try to have as little money in your account
as possible
when you take the plunge
and put pants on just long enough
to make the trip five minutes up the road
to the package store.
This will ensure that the beer you buy
is as likely to erode the inside of your esophagus
as it is to get you drunk,
which is exactly what you deserve.
Plus,
You’ll get the added bonus
of staring at the dollar and fifteen cents in your account
that six pack of Genesee left you with
and thinking,
“Maybe this is why everyone leaves.”
Chug three pints in as many minutes
and play the “try to stay awake until normal people start drinking” game.
The one you’ve never won
even once.
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A Late Sunday Walk in the Old North End
My eyes close slow and weighty,
moving scuff toed boots down streets I’ve seen
in the twinkle of crisp autumn nights
and the sheen of melty summer days
a hundred hundred times
without him,
without his big long footsteps that keep getting big longer,
without his stretching broadaxe forearm swings
without his bob bob bobbing head,
shoulder to chin to ears to the six-foot-two skyline
I will look up to in October of next year.
My eyes close weighty and slow,
and he is hyena laughing me to sleep
with stories about high school sweethearts
and breath that smells like Heady Topper.
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The Deep Dark Sleep
The winking man
slides across the floor,
the sound of a hundred thunders
in his belly.
He's hungry for game,
chasing meat or play,
hunting foot and hand
in the deep dark sleep.
Little daggers find a home
in the side of an old stereo
his granddaddy bought,
whose Ella records used to
thump thump through the house.
The winking man makes new music now
with a rip and a yowl and a clatter of cans,
a crooner banging trash lids
in the deep dark sleep.
He's blinking heavy now,
his lid chiming a low C,
sending him down,
down,
down to a quiet corner room
in the hotel nighttime
where the winking man's bed
is already made.
It's warm and it's blue
and he has friends there waiting for him
in the deep dark sleep.
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Cable Cutters and Sunshine
A man on the street corner told me
it’s all cable cutters and sunshine out there.
His beard nearly touched the ground,
stretching like matted hands
towards the darkened slush at his feet.
His friend tore at the strings of a guitar,
and when she smiled
all her teeth fell out,
percussing on the sidewalk
like mice in tap shoes.
She had to stop playing in order to sing,
a sound like molten metal
pouring over cellphones:
crackling, sputtering,
dripping through the air.
I asked them if they had any change to spare,
and they gave me a North Dakota quarter
I could see my reflection in.
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Lament of Punk Girls Gone By
You were the nineties:
dirty and strange,
shaving the sides of your head
in the community center bathroom.
I remember,
your jeans had holes in the knees
big enough to put your foot through every morning.
I still wonder about whether that was on purpose,
or if it happened one time
and just kept getting worse.
I used to trace your sharpie tattoos in my head
instead of counting sheep,
and seriously considered taking up smoking
so my leather jacket would keep smelling like you.
We got older, as everything does.
But I still dream of those technicolor high school nights
spent dancing around each other,
moths wary of a growing fire
but drawn to it all the same.
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Fish Lips
I was still a babe the first time it happened.
I shook like a handheld ice cream maker,
and got Joshua sent to the office.
The second time I was fourteen,
too old to spend an hour wiping my eyes
next to the curling kitten posters
in Mrs. Zemo’s room.
Afterwards, I pretended to like The Patriots,
and everyone forgot about it.
The third time it was someone I used to hold hands with.
It was a joke, she said,
and I laughed with her.
We broke up over the phone on a rainy day in July,
and I sat in front of a mirror all night.
Sarah said it once. I think that was the last time.
We were lying in a pile of laundry,
our cheeks flushed and our breath heavy
with the smell of caramel Smirnov.
She whispered it to me between kisses,
and giggled herself to sleep.
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On the February Sidewalk
I become an expert tracker
after a snowfall.
Look there – a size twelve man
stumbled southeast,
took the stairs down
to the pub on the corner,
the one with the sign missing an “A,”
and didn’t come back again.
A woman, too,
in heels she wasn’t used to,
tread the path he set,
at his side but perhaps an hour later.
I myself leave impressions
for the next tracker.
She’ll say,
“Aha! A man in ten-and-a-halves
walked in circles
enough times for his feet to devour each other.”
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Tuesday Night at the Davidson’s
There was a thump thump trample in the mudroom.
From the kitchen, a crack tinkling of glass bottles.
Honey, I’m home.
A bottle whoosh zoomed through the air
splattering clown nose red on the living room drywall.
Hello dear. How was your day?
Shoes huff puffed across the table
treading Bolognese all over the dining room floor.
It was alright.
With a crash thud a ceramic Frisbee
found the game room and sunk the pool table.
That’s good to hear.
A thrash tear marked the end
of the old La-Z-boy in the TV room.
And what about yours?
Knives and forks whizz swooped down the hall
and buried themselves in the study door.
It was just fine.
The axe rip thunked through the bed
sending splinters and feathers dancing through the carpet.
Well, that’s good then.
Flames flick shoomed along the old veneer siding
licking the sky with an eager tongue.
Yes. I suppose it is.
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Jessie’s Girl Responds
Let me begin by saying that I have a name.
It’s Nancy.
It was my grandmother’s name,
and I like it very much.
So please,
if you intend to hit on me for a solid three minutes and sixteen seconds
every time we run into each other,
bother to learn it.
Now, Rick. Let’s talk.
I know that Jessie is your friend,
and the two of you are very close.
I understand that my dating him has changed your dynamic,
and for that, I’m sorry.
I never intended to drive a wedge between you.
But you have to understand,
Jessie and I are in love.
Yes, we watch each other with our eyes,
as you so astutely pointed out.
And yes, we love each other with our bodies.
We are adults, that much isn’t strange.
What is strange is you talking about it constantly.
What’s even more strange is the fact that you seem to think
that you love me
the way Jessie does, perhaps
even more intensely,
if your continuous wishing is to be believed.
Let me assure you,
what you feel isn’t love.
What you feel is the quick rush of blood
from your heart to the space between your legs
where your tight bad boy jeans ride even tighter.
You have not been “funny” or “cool with the lines.”
In fact, you have been nothing short of a slimy, slick-haired douche
who wouldn’t look out of place on a police line-up.
I had really hoped we could get along,
because for whatever reason,
Jessie seems to like you.
But honestly,
I can’t even look at you without throwing up in my mouth,
much less spend any real time with you.
So please, Rick,
go find “a woman like that” somewhere far, far away from me.
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Greener Pastures
I’m leaving this place
for greener pastures,
maybe somewhere in Scotland
to start a dairy farm
with hairy cows.
And before you ask,
I’m never coming back.
It isn’t you.
In fact,
you’ve been pretty good to me
these past twenty-one years.
Better than I deserved,
that’s for sure.
But your teary eyes and sweet nothings
can’t change my mind.
Not this time.
Yes, I’m off for sunnier skies
in the rainy streets of Edinburgh
(which, for the last time, is pronounced “EdinBOROUGH”),
where I don’t have to clench my fists so hard
that little trickles of blood start running
from my palm through the spaces
between my fingers
every time I hear the jingle
for the five o’clock news.
I’ll be sure to send you a postcard.
One of the fancy ones
with the laminated front
and a picture of Loch Ness,
even though I’ll probably end up two or three hours
away from it,
somewhere like Longniddry.
I’d send you some milk from the cows too,
but it would probably spoil
before it even made it to LaGuardia.
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Slipping
I hear the elevator breathe
a deep sigh, a long rush
of air through metal lungs.
There is a creak, a snap,
and suddenly I’m plastered
to silver slick walls speeding
to kiss the concrete below,
free of restraints I am slipping.
I am slipping and I can only
close my eyes and remember
her voice.
I open my mouth to tell her
that she doesn’t need to worry
about whether or not
her hair looks greasy,
because it never does.
I open my mouth to tell her
that her eyes aren’t just brown:
they have golden rings in them.
I open my mouth to tell her
that she looks good in that teal dress.
I open my mouth like she’s next to me,
like she’s whispering hot in my ear.
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I Drink to Remember
I saw myself in a pint of chunky monkey ice cream
with bulging eyes and stretched face.
Maybe I need to open my chest,
pull out my heart and ribs,
shove them in a cardboard box from Amazon.com,
and ship it to Hartford, Connecticut
where I can be rebuilt as I was supposed to be:
tall, blonde, and less of a prick at parties.
Sarah plays the guitar
and I forget to breathe, just long enough
to remember every time I’ve ever made her cry.
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