when my little brother was 6
he thought he was Superman
and jumped off a slide
and broke his arm.
when I was 9 I was walking
and tripped on a grate
and broke my wrist
instead of learning to write
cursive I got to type book reports.
and the other night we sat there on the couch
and choked on the thick air swollen
with all sorts of things.
here we go!
the storm machine is on the roof.
and although you would assume it would be some sort of antennae array, sending signals to the heavens, it isn't. you would be wrong if this is what you had assumed.
the storm machine operates on the principle of this conversation:
"ada, why aren't there more thunderstorms?"
after a period of silence where you feel tired, she keeps her eyes closed and says to the phone, "i don't know, allen. probably there aren't enough warm and cold fronts."
"you're saying the lack of friction is doing things in here."
"i don't know. i mean, i studied french. but, since you asked me, i'm going to say it's not enough warm and cold fronts."
months later and after they'd stopped speaking, allen looked up at the sky and felt something tugging in the silence. he looked up and it tugged some more and he went inside his apartment and it kept tugging, in his head in his gut on his hair in an upwards motion and he was tugged to the roof and sat down.
he looked out and around and saw them building the comcast building shining in the sun at 5 p.m. and city hall and but it was when he saw the ice cream truck on the roof next door that he remembered about the warm and the cold and the things that tension brings.
and although you would assume it would be some sort of antennae array, sending signals to the heavens, it isn't. you would be wrong if this is what you had assumed.
the storm machine operates on the principle of this conversation:
"ada, why aren't there more thunderstorms?"
after a period of silence where you feel tired, she keeps her eyes closed and says to the phone, "i don't know, allen. probably there aren't enough warm and cold fronts."
"you're saying the lack of friction is doing things in here."
"i don't know. i mean, i studied french. but, since you asked me, i'm going to say it's not enough warm and cold fronts."
months later and after they'd stopped speaking, allen looked up at the sky and felt something tugging in the silence. he looked up and it tugged some more and he went inside his apartment and it kept tugging, in his head in his gut on his hair in an upwards motion and he was tugged to the roof and sat down.
he looked out and around and saw them building the comcast building shining in the sun at 5 p.m. and city hall and but it was when he saw the ice cream truck on the roof next door that he remembered about the warm and the cold and the things that tension brings.
when we clap, it's not applause
there are always gnats in my whiskey
and we hardly ever empty the ashtrays
and I have band-aids
on the bony part of my foot
where things just rub it wrong.
and it is hot in Philadelphia
and all the sidewalks smell like wet
and the old men can never keep it straight
if they asked me for a quarter today or yesterday
and I wonder what would happen if I just threw hot dogs at the lot of them.
I think the problem lies in each of us
that if we got together block by block
we could change things,
today I have taken to putting out cigarettes before they’re finished.
that way I can see the camel look forwards,
the smoke rises up
and I watch it go into the air vent
above my head.
come over tonight, and I’ll make a nice icy drink for you
and I’ll show you the scabs on my arms
from carrying heavy things made of wood
all up and down the stairs.
and we hardly ever empty the ashtrays
and I have band-aids
on the bony part of my foot
where things just rub it wrong.
and it is hot in Philadelphia
and all the sidewalks smell like wet
and the old men can never keep it straight
if they asked me for a quarter today or yesterday
and I wonder what would happen if I just threw hot dogs at the lot of them.
I think the problem lies in each of us
that if we got together block by block
we could change things,
today I have taken to putting out cigarettes before they’re finished.
that way I can see the camel look forwards,
the smoke rises up
and I watch it go into the air vent
above my head.
come over tonight, and I’ll make a nice icy drink for you
and I’ll show you the scabs on my arms
from carrying heavy things made of wood
all up and down the stairs.
calling cards 1
we watched that winter as paper
snowflakes fell symmetrically
onto piles of fluffy cotton
white hanes t’s up to
your hips, up to here so you
had to wade with boots there
was plastic covering the sidewalk
in case company came.
snowflakes fell symmetrically
onto piles of fluffy cotton
white hanes t’s up to
your hips, up to here so you
had to wade with boots there
was plastic covering the sidewalk
in case company came.
calling cards 2
it was the winter steve left
the butter in with the flatware
and I found some chicken
on my bed, all wrapped up in a shopping bag.
it was the winter we spoke through
walls through tin can phones through
calling cards, mixed metaphors and
the ocean crashing and breaking
pulling and straining
on all sorts of things.
the butter in with the flatware
and I found some chicken
on my bed, all wrapped up in a shopping bag.
it was the winter we spoke through
walls through tin can phones through
calling cards, mixed metaphors and
the ocean crashing and breaking
pulling and straining
on all sorts of things.
garbage night (5)
there are no pirates here.
only al green and a lack of voice mail.
there is a vacuum for in case of glass
breaking and a need for tighter prose
that last bit was going to read
“and a millipede bigger than my thumb
trying to cross a corner.”
there are phone messages
we have yet to listen to, and over there
are the paper bags
full of cans.
they sit there on buckled green linoleum
the cans have dried beer on their
lips, as they sit in the paper bags we got
from trader joe’s
because there are no shop rites
nearby. so they will sit there, patiently, and wait.
on sunday night around here it is garbage
night and this means we take all the things
we no longer need and put them on the curb
where someone will take them away
I can say this because I hear them come
because I am a light sleeper
and I am always looking for a reason
to wake up
only al green and a lack of voice mail.
there is a vacuum for in case of glass
breaking and a need for tighter prose
that last bit was going to read
“and a millipede bigger than my thumb
trying to cross a corner.”
there are phone messages
we have yet to listen to, and over there
are the paper bags
full of cans.
they sit there on buckled green linoleum
the cans have dried beer on their
lips, as they sit in the paper bags we got
from trader joe’s
because there are no shop rites
nearby. so they will sit there, patiently, and wait.
on sunday night around here it is garbage
night and this means we take all the things
we no longer need and put them on the curb
where someone will take them away
I can say this because I hear them come
because I am a light sleeper
and I am always looking for a reason
to wake up
fireworks season
according to the internet we’re friends again
and 17th street says it’s fireworks season
where every day it’s 100 degrees
and we’re searching for astronauts
because we want to believe in something bigger
and today I read
about how nick drake’s face never
looked quite right with a smile on it.
when I was younger I used to eat hot dog buns
around this time
back when that meant fields and fireworks
for one night, in an official sort of display
and maybe that’s a difference between being
22 and 7
but even then there were spent cartridges
remnants in the grass and street.
there are some things we never leave behind
no matter how tight we shut our eyes
and 17th street says it’s fireworks season
where every day it’s 100 degrees
and we’re searching for astronauts
because we want to believe in something bigger
and today I read
about how nick drake’s face never
looked quite right with a smile on it.
when I was younger I used to eat hot dog buns
around this time
back when that meant fields and fireworks
for one night, in an official sort of display
and maybe that’s a difference between being
22 and 7
but even then there were spent cartridges
remnants in the grass and street.
there are some things we never leave behind
no matter how tight we shut our eyes
but we've been over that
i can see the moon hide
ing in the clouds, or may
be they won’t let it out maybe
those clouds, they’re
abu ghraib.
I could be exaggerating here.
ing in the clouds, or may
be they won’t let it out maybe
those clouds, they’re
abu ghraib.
I could be exaggerating here.
garbage night
there are no pirates here.
only al green and a lack of voice mail.
there is a vacuum for in case of glass
breaking and a need for tighter prose
that last bit was going to read
“and a millipede bigger than my thumb
trying to cross a corner.”
there are phone messages
we have yet to listen to, and in the corner
are paper bags
full of cans.
on sunday night around here it is garbage
night and this means we take all the things
we no longer need and put them on the curb
where someone will take them away
only al green and a lack of voice mail.
there is a vacuum for in case of glass
breaking and a need for tighter prose
that last bit was going to read
“and a millipede bigger than my thumb
trying to cross a corner.”
there are phone messages
we have yet to listen to, and in the corner
are paper bags
full of cans.
on sunday night around here it is garbage
night and this means we take all the things
we no longer need and put them on the curb
where someone will take them away
wait until dark
I.
in march I was at the beach and every night I spent
outside on the deck, teaching myself
about how just because you can’t see something
doesn’t mean it’s not still there.
you just can’t see it right now.
this is a lesson the waves are good for.
this is a lesson best taught in the dark.
II.
the bedroom in the new apartment is better at being dark
than the old one. the drapes play a big role
and I’d say so does the space, but somehow
having more space to fill just means the light works harder.
which isn’t to say it’s easier to sleep,
going to bed and thinking about how I wish I had some ice cream
but all I have is beer.
this is what happens when you don’t have a job.
the ice cream/beer dilemma. which bleeds into the rent dilemma,
the imminent future dilemma.
but the fireworks are there, because it’s july
and on our block this means fireworks.
and when I go to bed sometimes
I squeeze my eyes shut so it’s dark.
and I pretend this is the sort of darkness that can swallow the fireworks up.
it doesn’t mean the fireworks aren’t there.
it just means I can’t see them right now.
in march I was at the beach and every night I spent
outside on the deck, teaching myself
about how just because you can’t see something
doesn’t mean it’s not still there.
you just can’t see it right now.
this is a lesson the waves are good for.
this is a lesson best taught in the dark.
II.
the bedroom in the new apartment is better at being dark
than the old one. the drapes play a big role
and I’d say so does the space, but somehow
having more space to fill just means the light works harder.
which isn’t to say it’s easier to sleep,
going to bed and thinking about how I wish I had some ice cream
but all I have is beer.
this is what happens when you don’t have a job.
the ice cream/beer dilemma. which bleeds into the rent dilemma,
the imminent future dilemma.
but the fireworks are there, because it’s july
and on our block this means fireworks.
and when I go to bed sometimes
I squeeze my eyes shut so it’s dark.
and I pretend this is the sort of darkness that can swallow the fireworks up.
it doesn’t mean the fireworks aren’t there.
it just means I can’t see them right now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
