A poem by Patrick Phillips
Matinee
After the biopsy,
after the bone scan,
after the consult and the crying,
for a few hours no one could find them,
not even my sister,
because it turns out
they'd gone to the movies.
Something tragic was playing,
something epic,
and so they went to the comedy
with their popcorn
and their cokes,
the old wife whispering everything twice,
the old husband
cupping a palm to his ear,
as the late sun lit up an orchard
behind the strip mall,
and they sat in the dark holding hands.
Patrick Phillips
Listen to Patrick Phillips introduce and read his poem
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You can be born in Atlanta, GA, but you know you’ve become a New Yorker, @ poet Patrick Phillips, when you’re writing a poem about what we call, in this city, “a slice.”
Jubilate Civitas
I will consider a slice of pizza.
For rare among pleasures in Gotham, it is both
exquisite and blessedly cheap.
For its warmth is embracing, its smell the
quintessence of hope.
For it can be found in all boroughs, every few blocks,
yet never two slices the same.
For its makers speak many tongues.
For dusting the counter with cornmeal and flour,
without looking down, they pummel and roll out
the dough.
For they heap out the still-steaming sauce and, with a
touch of the ladle, paint it in rings like a bull’s-eye,
or a tree-stump, or a thumb.
For they smile at each other’s jokes, grasping great
handfuls of cheese.
For wiping both hands on an apron, they nod at the
phrase “not too hot,” and start one of a hundred
little clocks in their heads.
For their corded forearms reach deep in the oven with
a long-handled paddle, giving each pie, with a flick,
its requisite spin.
For heat bubbles and blisters and browns the
miraculous crust.
For even in the tiniest shop you can find every style:
sagging with mushrooms and bacon, broccoli and
pineapple, chicken, and sausage, and onion.
For time passes slowly awaiting a slice, and reminds us
how sweet it is to be alive at this moment on earth.
For it slides to a stop in a little city of shakers, where
with pepper and oregano, garlic and parmesan, we
citizens make it our own.
For you can fold it in half like a taco and eat it while
standing or driving, or walking and working your
phone.
For I have seen the bearded young men of Brooklyn
sit upright to eat it, riding bicycles through
redlights, at midnight, in the rain.
For with each bite the paper plate grows more
translucent with grease, till it glows like stained
glass over the trash can.
For it has nourished our children and soothed many
sorrows.
For in a time of deceit it is honest and upright,
steadfast and good—beloved and modest and
known.
For its commerce makes nobody rich and nobody
poor.
For that, to us, it is home.
. .
More on this book and author:
Learn more about Song of the Closing Doors by Patrick Phillips.
Browse other books by Patrick Phillips and follow him @patrickphillipsbooks on Instagram.
Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.
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“Old Song” - Patrick Phillips
Praised be friends. Praise enemies.
Praise the dark above.
Praise hangovers. Praise cigarettes.
The vulture and the dove.
Praise all music. Praise the harp.
And the amplifier's buzz.
Praise the days we'd live forever.
And loneliness. And love.
Praise even death, or at least the dying,
who taught us how to live.
Praise you, someday, reading this.
Praise light. Praise the wind.
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Galleria Ode
By Patrick Phillips
Something there is that doesn’t love the mall
where we used to chainsmoke on the mezzanine
and watch the escalator’s endless crawl
up from Häagen-Dazs to Chuck E. Cheese—
something so embarrassed by it all, it shatters glass
and scatters yellow lading slips among the weeds,
and strips whole runs of copper from the walls
of what was once a Limited, a County Seat—
their slender mannequins spray-painted now
with cartoon boobs and cocks, unseen
until the new kids come to flash their phones
inside the ancient ruins of the Regal 6—
where webless, clueless, on our own,
we used to hold hands in the dark and kiss.
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Galleria Ode
Patrick Phillips
Something there is that doesn’t love the mall
where we used to chainsmoke on the mezzanine
and watch the escalator’s endless crawl
up from Häagen-Dazs to Chuck E. Cheese—
something so embarrassed by it all, it shatters glass
and scatters yellow lading slips among the weeds,
and strips whole runs of copper from the walls
of what was once a Limited, a County Seat—
their slender mannequins spray-painted now
with cartoon boobs and cocks, unseen
until the new kids come to flash their phones
inside the ancient ruins of the Regal 6—
where webless, clueless, on our own,
we used to hold hands in the dark and kiss.
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evans characters as lana songs 💋
not camryn's normal content but whatever this has been on my mind 🙏🙏 just so we're clear:
tate- i want you boy, pretty when you cry
kit- let the light in, tomorrow never came, queen of the gas station
kyle- (pre death) driving in cars with boys, video games, black beauty
jimmy- national anthem, blue jeans, yayo, how to disappear
james- art deco, million dollar man, and money, power, glory
epm & rory monahan: idk i haven't watched roanoke in like a year
kai: ultraviolence, cult leader (duh), religion, american (RAHH 🦅 🇺🇸)
gallant: PEPPERS LMFAOO
austin sommers: groupie love, serene queen, your girl, fishtail
peter maximoff: high by the beach, white dress (cuz she talks real fast in that one)
colin zabel: playing dangerous, thunder, pretty much all of blue banisters
argue with the wall. (actually dont instead interact with me im so bored 💀)
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the show needs to start introducing characters i don’t care about and ruining their lives QUICKLY, because I’m wayyyy to emotionally attached to these ones.
Like it would ruin my year if anything happens to a single one of them. And all those analysts talking about how Marie or Jordan are probably gonna be the ones to go can ACTUALLY go fvck themselves. Why would you put that type of energy out there? An interracial non white MAIN COUPLE with two of the most powerful people in the show??? Take that energy somewhere else expeditiously, this is not The motherfvcking Game of Thrones. Y’all were wrong about golden boy and you’re DEAD wrong about this.
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"No, that's just it. You didn't know Luke. How funny he was, how much he loved his family. But shades of gray don't sell like black and white, do they?" Cate said.
Y/N leaned in close towards her until their noses were almost touching. "You don't have the power to control me, do you?" She grabbed his shoulder and tried to compel him with her powers, but to her surprise, it didn't work.
"Not even close." Y/N scoffed. "Stay the fuck away from Luke."
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