When You Didn’t Call on Saturday
The din of wood against beer
In the place between
Time and you
Wouldn’t tell me your age
Or if you could still taste my pussy
After dinner and two more
Glasses of wine
Beside the fire pit
The nicotine tarnished the air
And snuffed out the smoke
You showed me the scars
The red on both wrists
Young women smoked
And we ordered shots
Of Blue Agave Tequila
In some blur
We became part of the bar
High on bar stools
I licked Margarita salt
You paid over two hundred dollars
Our bartender was a bitch
With a great ass
You told me that one time
You accidentally
Took too many pills
When you didn’t call on Saturday
Sunday I knew you were dead
When your sister-in-law
Called on Tuesday
I thought I was going to be sick
I HAVEN’T LISTENED TO RICHARD CORY
Just outside Ithaca,
The rain beats the foliage
Just inside the Denny’s
There is florescent warmth
Speckled brown ceramic
Cups of hot chocolate
Teenagers in groups of four
Their neon bracelets clash
We sit around the table
My aunt Carol, my uncle Fran,
My mother
My dad, and me.
I order a glass of milk
And a bowl of oatmeal
My Uncle Fran
Wears square glasses frames
He looks just the same
As the last time
“How did Mike do it?”
My mom asks.
I try to move my chair
Catches the carpet
“He shot himself
In the head
With a shot gun,”
I haven’t listened
To Richard Cory
Since I found out
How you died.
SONGS NOT PLAYING
I’m now lying
On the carpet of the
Living room floor having just
Masturbated.
I see the
Fringe of this
Green and maroon afghan hanging off
The coach in my parent’s
House. It reminds me of
This story about my
Uncle Tim who was
Told to toss the
Afghan
Down the stairs, but he
Tossed the ventilator instead.
He just knew it was a
Thing with a
Funny name.
And like a
Platypus
I feel awkward being in
My parents house, my old
Home. As a Quasi adult bearing
Young things with
Tiny black duck bills. And
I sit with the Afghan in my
Parents house, my old
Home. And I listen to
All of the the Songs that my
Mother should know.
And
All of the
Songs not playing.
(Poets)
They are obsessed with:
Syntax, quater moons,
and the adjective metalic. Long lost religious wars.
Fuck, Cunt, and various dirty words in disconect
and
The defraction of light against the clouds, defining
God, pretty
words, anomalies
And flesh between Conversations.
They are obssesed with science, silence,
and the langauge lacking any sense
They are obssessed with time, loss,
Buddah, Jack Kerouac, and Ginsberg-
(Though they won't admit it)
Nipples, the mouth and the
word didactic origins of parataxis
dappled by centrifigal force.
Crisp sounds in asphalt like ipicac, pop, stark and
Stars,
They speak too much of the ocean and sea
too much meaning in waves
against the mirror
They are obssessed with abstractions
and avoiding them with
Concrete objects and metaphores, like
cars called Galaxy.
They are obssessed with
Teeth
and broken Things
We expect too much, they are Poets not actors.
