Author: R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

spent

I’m rummaging
through my brain, turning
out my mental pockets,
hoping to find the words
for one more poem. yesterday
I spent all my coins, cranked
out so many poems that I truly fear
I have nothing left. why didn’t I save
one or two for a rainy day
like today, when I’m hungover
and have no inspiration
and nothing seems worthy
to write about? silly me.
maybe if I look a little harder
I can wring some more wine
out of this dirty rag
I call my brain, and cudgel one more
collection of words on the page
into something resembling
a poem.

introductions

I’m funny about
being introduced. like my friend
Happy will introduce herself
without a qualm to anyone
whereas I hang back. it doesn’t matter
who it is, I feel awkward.
today I felt bad
because I didn’t introduce myself
to the workmen, let alone
buy them some beers
that they could enjoy on the terrace
while they were slaving away
fixing my air conditioning. Happy
would have done it. why
can’t I? why am I so very shy
to tell people my name
and ask theirs in return?
why would I rather
sit in the corner and write a poem
than meet people
I don’t already know? it’s silly
really. it would probably behoove me
to make a little more effort
to give people a chance
to get to know me
before assuming
they don’t like the cut
of my jib.

to the lesbians making out across from me

I’m glad
that you’re here. I’m even gladder
that certain people
of my acquaintance
are not. they might well
write a song about you
which would objectify you
and make your healthy sexuality
into a spectacle for their delectation
when it’s nobody’s business
but yours.

that said, I really like
how you look like
real lesbians, comfortable with
yourselves and each other and
public displays of affection,
and I like how you kiss like
real lesbians, not like two girls
who aren’t really attracted to each other
but are getting paid big bucks
to ritually titillate men by half-assedly making out.

you’re not plucked and
made up to within an
inch of your lives,
toned and tanned
and fake-nailed etc.
(not that I judge the women
that have made that choice
to survive under the patriarchy.)
it’s just refreshing to see two ladies
who are so obviously
in love.

to the cutest new waiter at my favorite venue, whose name may be Chad

you’re so
clean cut and innocent-looking
with your muted plaid shirts
like you just moved here
from Connecticut or
New Hampshire or
Wisconsin or Idaho;
somewhere bucolic
that isn’t so smoggy.

your clear country skin
is creamy as a milkmaid’s,
you’ve never seen rats, or roaches –
or homeless dudes relieving
themselves on the subway
right before asking for change –
until now.

your cloudless blue eyes
have never felt the poison kiss
of acid rain or mysterious awful liquids dripping
from air conditioning units
that love to land
right in your pretty little
peepers – until now.

did you move here to become
an actor? that’s so adorable.
you’re probably young enough
to be my child. much as I would love
to spoil you – in and out of bed –
I can see by your face that
you haven’t suffered
enough yet to be an artist of note.
get back to me in a few years
when New York has broken
your spirit a little bit more.

maybe by then you’ll have forgotten
my embarrassing little secrets
like how I order extra butter
for the garlic bread that is supposedly
“already buttered”, or how I left a full bowl
of pasta sauce consisting entirely
of onions, having picked out
all the penne and all the bacon,
or how I danced not entirely awkwardly
to Ben Pagano’s set
like a broken robot. please, forget
these things that make me look
somewhat less than cool,
and I’ll forgive how very pretty
you are, little country boy.

regicide?

I’m so sorry. I think I may have
killed The Artist
Formerly Known As
Prince. (well, first he was Prince
Rogers Nelson, then he was
Prince, then he was a Symbol,
then he was The Artist Formerly
Known As Prince, then he was
Prince again. now he’s back
to being former.)
Always a prince though;
he didn’t want
to be King, so is it
really regicide?

how did I cause
his demise, you ask?
I fear it was hearing
the way I butchered the beats
on our compilation
that probably made him
shuffle off his mortal coil.
at least I can picture the scene,
his lawyers telling him
that some bunch of weirdos
from the East Village
covered his songs
without permission –

but I’ll have your ghostly Highness
know two things: I didn’t sample
anything, I made those
terrible beats and assorted weird sounds
all by myself, thank you, and secondly
I bought your originals
from iTunes –

so anyway
TAFKAP was probably digging it
until he got to my tracks
and then the arrhythmia
of my beats infected
his heart and it was maybe just
too much for him. again,
I truly, madly, deeply apologize
and if throwing me in jail
will bring him back, please feel free
to lock me up and throw away
the key.

to the biter

who’s biting who now, sirrah?
I realize
you have your quota – which
is more stringent than mine
because you’re doing your
days of the month scheme, and I’m
able to settle for a mere
two or three per day –
but I invented the
“I was falling asleep
when I wrote that”
excuse. I’ve been using it since
grade school. I should warn you
it doesn’t work
very well. I got little sympathy,
but I’m pretty sure I didn’t
deserve it anyway.

hey, I understand. you just
needed it more than I did.
I probably wasn’t
going to use it
anyway. I’ll save it for
an emergency, like the next time
I’m trying to break even
and attain a nice
round number.

99

almost there! I’m so close
I can taste it. that sweet sweet
milestone that I made up
to make myself feel accomplished
that will immediately be replaced
by a new milestone (200!)
as soon as this is posted, because
I had ninety-nine
poems “published” (on Facebook)
this year and this one
will be #100.

(though several
have since been taken off-line
by me
due to embarrassment, feeling like
they’re too mean, or not good enough
or all three. do those
really count?
should I make them visible again
even though I don’t really still
subscribe to their beliefs
or stand by all of their
statements?)

last year I wrote nine, which was
eight more than I wrote
the year before. now, eleven times
that! the symmetry of these
meaningless numbers pleases
me.

the sky’s the limit! that is,
as long as I don’t decide to rest
on my sweet sweet
laurels.

crumbs.

all those crackers you and I put out
for the birds
got wet
and ruined by rain
before anybird had a chance
to eat them. then,
not too long after
I finally cleaned them up,
I saw a single, lone bird –
a glossy black slightly iridescent-feathered guy
with a brassy, sassy chirp and
a bold yellow beak and legs,
cute as the day is long
and twice as brave
in the face of my extremely
interested cats –
come by and land right on the
deck, to pick and peck
at the crumbs.

the moral of this story?
turns out it is possible
to have too much
of a good thing.
save your spread
for the ones who will
appreciate it
rather than pouring out
your whole heart at once –
spending your love like something
you’re trying to get rid of –
in the hopes that someone
will happen by
to eat it all up.

one good thing

every time I lie down
to try to sleep, I feel the need
to be able to think of at least
one good thing, one spark
of happiness to hold
like a tiny glowing ember
inside my heart
against the death-like dark
and keep me warm
until I wake.

if
I wrote a poem
that someone liked,
or I learned
a new song that I think
will be good at the mics,
or maybe if someone
out there might be
in love with me, those ignite
the little coal. often one
is not enough and I need to rack
my brain for another.

well, today
when I checked in
to the lobby of the building
where the recording studio is,
the security guard
upon hearing my destination
said, “do I know your voice?”
and I replied, “not yet”;
and after the first take
of the Magnum spot,
the engineer said “I want
chocolate!” and even though
part of me wants to stay up
and torture myself by
finding fault
with every single thing
I did today, maybe instead
I could try to hold on to those
two moments. maybe
they could be enough
to keep me
til tomorrow.