Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
The birds are fleeing,
Gators, too.
Leaving the poor,
And propertied Jews.
The sky is crackling,
Phone lines, too.
Duracell’s happy,
And so is the news.
The tub is full up,
Fridge is, too.
In sixteen hours,
The sky will be blue.
The day is sopping,
The evening, too.
I demand an accounting:
Who can I sue?
You can smell the storm
A-coming;
When it gets here,
I don’t know.
By the breeze and beach
A-buzzing;
Where the land falls,
I don’t know.
All the radar teevee forecasts,
Barometric wows and flutters;
Should we fill the bathtub up, and
Do we really need the shutters?
You can smell the storm
A-coming;
When it gets here,
We’ll all know.
I saw a liar today;
Said he was a Vietnam vet.
Had the hat and everything.
Faded bulldog on his left forearm, and
Bowlegged in his velcro sneakers.
Liar.
You served in Korea, old man.
The second World War eye-eye.
Maybe you rode rough up San Juan Hill.
But not Vietnam.
Vietnam vets are in their 40s.
They’re my father’s age.
(Well, not my father,
but my friend Matt’s,
and Glenn’s.
And some teachers, mostly history.
Not my father.)
When did you get like this, and
Who’s going to take care of Charlie now?
I was told you were 19.
Nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nineteen.
How’d you get so old when I’m still so young?
Someone’s lying and I’ll find out who one of these days.
In darkened days
Of winter, May
–who had a window for a face–
Was in her room;
The curtains drawn.
Red and yellow socks
And a picture of
A fish that died
When she was eight.
And the plate from
Last night’s toast.
She liked to stay
Inside, did May
–she had a window for a face–
And play her records
From her favorite bands.
“They’ll all see in,”
Said May.
“See what I’m thinking.”
But May had to leave,
At least once in a while.
She drew down her eyes,
Lipsticked on a red smile.
She pretended that she
Was an ord’nary girl,
And threw back the drapes,
And went out in the world.
She talked to her teachers,
And the kids at the school.
The butcher, the baker,
Lifeguards at the pool.
They can see in!
Said May, who was fraught.
They can see what I think,
And see what I’ve thought!
But no one she met
Really seemed much to mind:
Some were polite,
Some were old-fashioned kind.
And back in her room,
With her headphones on, May
Thought of the people
She’d met on that day.
No nasty words said,
Nor foul comments blurted;
She could have sworn
That a boy might have flirted.
And little by little,
The truth it drew nearer:
The people she’d met
Used her face as a mirror.
There’s a town in France,
Called Bismuth,
Where all the children’s
Eyes
Are periscopes.
They drape their forearms
Over their ears
And search the horizon for signs
Of trouble.
There will be a swallow,
A gulp or galumph,
A hitch in the blink;
Perhaps a harrumph.
The left hand’s important,
Or maybe the right.
The gaze is too loose,
Or was it too tight?
Over-specifics,
Unasked-for details;
Changing the subject:
That one never fails.
Defense against lies:
Your loins you must gird.
But if she says “I love you”
Believe every word.
Gosh
Jeff,
I mean Robert,
Not one mention of
Suspecting
Results are incorrect?
Why is that?
According to tradition it was
From the balcony
Off of this room
That the young
Woman
Fell
To her death.
What a fantastic place.
I love seeing the friendships between the animals.
Lisa,
Glad to know you have let go of those crushing feelings of guilt.
Laika slipped the surly bonds
To lick the face of God.
Laika got a one-way trip:
Reentry was a hassle.
Laika was a good dog;
First Earthling in space.
The Russians said
She didn’t suffer, but
You can’t trust a Commie.
Laika couldn’t tell time, but
She knew
When the simulation was over, and
She stared
At the hatch
–her tail would have wagged had it not been strapped down–
And waited for the Guy to
Fetch her.
Laika was a good dog;
Gagarin traced her trusting footsteps.
I want to go up
The river.
Leave the pants;
Take the gunboat.
A farmer has found a cobalt seam
Somewhere.
I’ll buy a suit,
And buy it for my employers.
A forward agent,
In a backwards place.
A ceiling fan place.
A barefoot place.
A good place to raise
An army.
Trade my nom de plume
For a nom du guerre,
Maybe a beret.
Maybe two.
Communism.
God.
I’ll get the natives to believe in
Something.
I’ll get the Chinese
Or the Russians
To believe in me.
Work that seam to exhaustion
–the seam, not the workers; fuck them–
While I diversify.
I want to crush the rebels:
They are massing
In the hills,
But I hold the river.
Idi Amin,
Idi Amin,
O, the things that you’ve seen,
Idi Amin.
Who does the Jew get
To worship
And ride shotgun?
Gimme Jesus,
Straight-haired Jesus,
The one from the paintings,
He had such good
Teeth.
Or Imhotep
–now impotent–
Maledict,
Baphomet.
Obatala,
Tiw.
I’ll take a backbencher.
Tell me about His appetite,
And the names of all Her weapons
But not You.
Y-u.
Tetragrammaton for the fancy:
You do it Your way, Yahweh.
Nameless,
And faceless
(the beard is assumed)
To look upon the face of blah blah blah.
That bullshit’s for
The pious and the readers:
Gimme Jesus
With a face like a movie star.
We all need a face
We can look up at,
While we’re on our knees,
Worshipping.
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