Category: 2017

the bull show

for eighty years
they have been putting it on:
showing their bulls
and presumably cleaning up
their shit. this year
the grandsons – and maybe -daughters –
of the farmers who showed
their bulls at the very first
bull show will compete,
probably showing
the great great great grandchildren
of the bulls that
won the first one.

Angus, Charolais, Gelbvieh,
Simmental, and Hereford are
some of the breeds they will
be selling. such exotic names
for a most domestic animal.
afterwards the buyers and sellers
will have a dinner at the
Williams Lake Curling Club.
I wonder if any feuds occur
over a hotly disputed prize-winning animal
lost in a bidding war,
or if everyone is
the best of friends.

this all sounds very exciting,
if one is even remotely interested
in bulls. I guess they need
something to do up there
in the middle of nowhere,
British Columbia. we can’t all
be lucky enough to live
the open mic life
here in NYC.

bodytalk

when I said “fuck you!”
earlier today, and accused you
of being five days early,
I was wrong. it turned out
you are right on time.
it was the computer
that made a mistake,
in the form of my
tracking website, which
consistently overestimates
your arrival by three to five
days, and my memory
of the incorrect predicted date
that led to this incorrect
assumption of your error.
I’m sorry. next time I’ll try
to remember that you’re usually
quite prompt, and reserve
judgement until I’ve
done the math.

hello old friend

it’s been quite a while
since our paths have crossed.
you seem different
than how I remember you –
smaller, shabbier, and sallower – but
I don’t think you
actually changed. it’s more
that I see you with new eyes.
I’ve changed, and
what used to fascinate me
no longer holds the same appeal. I’m
not sorry, because
we were doomed anyway,
and I no longer need or want
there to ever be an us.
I’m glad that I can now
appreciate what you can offer
as a friend, instead of
languishing over someone
who could never have
been more than that.

call of the North

that four forty five a.m.
impulse Mexican order
was not worth it. first of all
they kept calling me
to tell me they were
almost there (which was
a complete, shameless lie) just
when I had decided
to rest my eyes on the couch
for a second. secondly, final delivery
(after the many false alarm
phone calls) took place
fully one and a half
hours after the initial order
was placed. thirdly and really
most importantly, the food
wasn’t very good. I regret this
whole experience, La Norteña,
and soon, so will you.

witch, please

banish yourself
to the darkest depths
of Hades; take your black
cat familiar with you. draw a
counterclockwise pentagram
to remove all traces
of your aura. crawl back
into the open grave
from whence
you stumbled.

if it’s all the same to Hecate,
worship her quietly
in the forest where
no one can hear you cry.
the crescent moon
will hide your sighs
and the darkest trees
shelter your selfish soul.

the world seems to be sick
of your supernatural shenanigans.
better be gone than forget
the rule of three.
how many times
must you be punished
before you learn?

the source

I used to write more
fictionalized poems. I felt like I
was channeling them from
somewhere else. sometimes
I didn’t know where
they were coming from
or what they meant. it always
bothered me that I
hadn’t actually experienced
these situations that
came through my pen.
it robbed me of authority,
I thought, and furthermore,
it made me feel stupid,
because I couldn’t explain it.

once I was reading
Don Quixote and I was inspired to write
a vaguely romantic poem
about a knight named
Roland. it seemed meaningless,
yet oddly charged
at the time. several months later
my seat mate on a plane
flirted with me for six hours straight
before finally admitting
to having a girlfriend. just
before deplaning, he showed me
his driver’s license,
and there it was
in black and white: his name
was Roland. I thought of
my poem and felt like it
was more of a prophecy
of that situation
than a coincidence.

so now, even when
some fiction occurs
to me, I try to situate it
within the context
of my life and my own
reality. anyway I don’t
really care if the reader
can relate to the details.
they are for me.

I try
to write my feelings
in such a way that
someone reading might
recognize something
of themselves in them.
a well-turned phrase
still rings true
even in the midst
of my specific, untranslatable
situation. my personal truth
can be meaningful
to someone else
without my trying
to make it universal.

feelings are what’s universal.
details sometimes are –
more so than one
might think, I think – but even
if they’re not, who cares.

there’s something in me
that wants to come out.

if someone else
sees themselves in it, cool.

if not, they can scroll down
to the next poem.

not-so-superpowers

sometimes I feel invisible.
sometimes nothing feels right.
sometimes my bones ache
with the knowledge that
I’m not good enough.
sometimes this living
hurts me. sometimes my
x-ray vision shows me things
I’d rather not know.
sometimes my adamantium claws
carve up my own heart.
superfriends, save me
from the kryptonite
of my infinitely expanding
sadness.

poor rich

he shouldn’t feel bad
about what happened.

it was nice that he cared
enough to come out after me,
and brave that he dared
to broach the subject
in front of an audience.

I will admit to being
confused, and thrown off
guard, so I fell back
on my default arch
mannerisms, fearing
it was a trick, that somehow
he was setting me up
for embarrassment.
also I was so very tired
that at first I couldn’t even
remember the wording
of the piece in question,
so I stalled for time
while mentally reviewing it
for clues as to how angry
it could have come across.

but honestly I’d much rather
he asked if I was mad
when I wasn’t, than not notice
when I actually was mad.