Well folks, let me tell you… you had better brace yourselves for a literary treat. I have been digging through piles of my writings, pulling out pieces I would like to do something with in the near future (send out for publication, compile into a new chapbook… I’m not sure yet). Here I present to you a load of crap, stuff that most certainly did not make the “keeper” pile, and that never made it out of first draft (or even into first draft). Some of it is funny. Often for very different reasons. These pieces of retardation come from the period between my junior year of high school and my junior year of college. That’s all the background you’re getting.
There are times when the only
reason anyone gives a hoot about a subject
is because it sounds cool.
How much wood would a woodchuck
chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood.
That is the only time the woodchuck ever
pops his head out in conversation.
How much does the average male woodchuck weigh
doesn’t have the same ring to it.
Do woodchucks sleep underground
is missing homophones.
Where do they give birth, and how many are in a litter
doesn’t alliterate at all.
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Haven’t eaten a potato chip in three years,
never bought a gumball.
The world knows about gumballs,
realizes that gumballs are out to get us,
the reason the machines are always full.
=================
PigFood in my belly
I’m so smelly
Camel
The hump on my back
Is like a water pack
Tiger
Prowling through the grass
With stripes on my @#$!
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On a scrap of a Post-It note I had scribbled down this literary gem:
“There was a good deal of the spaniel in him.” That Hideous Strength, pg. 218
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This is pre-college, but I see it as a salute to Eric:
I sometimes wish I was passionate
enough to go to Russia
and discover the extent of my
inadequacy–
I cannot repeal a history of
Stalin or the reality of an alcoholic
president (Churchill was a heavy drinker
though, after all),
cannot make amends for decades
of American aggression,
can’t offer ingenious ways to
make life better–
But just to think that maybe
being there will mean something,
even if it does nothing.
Especially if all I got to
do was stand along a street
in a village and watch
doors and windows open and close,
faces emerging into the light and slipping quietly beyond sight.
=================
I lay there on the pull-out sofa bed in the beachfront
motel room after the rest of my family had gone
to sleep, listening to the ocean and thinking
about this mysterious woman who had entered my life.
That was three months ago. Now
we’ve said goodbye; she’s gone and will
one day make movies.
Perhaps it’s fitting then that this all
seems so much like a film. The plots
flowed smoothly, had something captivating
to tell. But this is the part where
the soundtrack stops, the camera reveals
empty or lonely landscapes and rooms: a vacant
cafeteria with stars shining through the skylights,
two golden retrievers with no one to pounce,
a passenger seat in a beat-up Volkswagen piled
with books. Then comes my voiceover, steady
but obviously inadequate: These were the days
we shared, a sort of gift we gave each other. Now the world
awaits, requiring us, and our parting. That was always
our story.
=================
I’m just so scared of turning out fake
But knowing what is real is far more
frightening, she tells me.
A squirrel darts among branches
above us, where chlorophyll
counts its days.
A new record. Something about
global tilt and SUV exhaust.
Bees will soon sit chattering in
their hives–honeycombed like
catalytic converters, taking all this
junk and making it at least
neutral.
Into Drive. Straight through the
tenth red light in a row. I’m
in such a hurry. Things to
do, things to do, things to do.
Still haven’t written that note
that I keep putting off.
Golf tourney this weekend, odds
against me. Evens are still
undecided. A whole nation
of fence sitters.
Not sure which party I’ll find
myself mixed up with come
this weekend–might try to
stay sober for once.
Wouldn’t be hard to get me
to swing my vote though–
a few agreeable sentences and
I’ll agree to a little booze.
No booze you snooze you lose.
Untied shoes. Too drunk to
remember which way the string
wraps around my wiry thumb.
Like walking northward with just
the clothes on my back and
a couple bucks, hoping for
some blessed humanist assured
that I’m not packing heat.
Who knows where I’ll find myself
tomorrow.
The squirrel grabs an acorn; she stands
to go.
=================
I have taken great inspiration from a horse.
Let me elaborate. Not too long ago, sometime last year, two years ago, I was driving to my friend’s house in Minnesota. Cow-towns don’t breed many good stories, and the ones they do are easy to tell. They all start out with, “Yeah, this one time I saw…”
Three cows getting it on. (The only way that makes sense is if one was gay and the one in the middle was bi.)
Two roosters pecking open each other’s necks.
A goat run headlong into a fence.
A dead deer slowly getting singed on an electric fence.
So, I’m bored, and bored or not I’m keeping my eyes open as I pass farm after farm. All I saw were the calmest, least feisty beasts mankind has ever known. There is a Minnesota law against use of hormones; or something.
Then, in a small pasture is a group of horses. A herd. Or a pod, school, flock, whatever.
It only registers as I’m passing–my foot doesn’t hit the break, I don’t slow down.
I think about turning around–the road’s empty–but decide against. I’ve seen it.
All the horses were standing perfectly still, not a hoof was prancing. They weren’t even swishing their tails, though I’m not sure if horses do that, or just cows.
And this one perfectly still horse is staring at this other horse’s ass, a death stare, a nearly psychokinetic gaze. The ass is about six inches from his nose. Muzzle. Snout. Whatever.
And I shake my head and say out loud, “Attaboy. Atta boy.“
Now, when I say attaboy, I mean, that’s something I’d be damn proud of it I did myself. Something that takes a little guts, a little pizazz.
When I say attaboy, someone else (if the story is being retold, not in the midst of happening) is already making a point in the air. It’s the same idea.
Okay, so this friend I was going to see was a girl, my love interest. We’ve been together two years, and I’m still weird talking about her. My family likes her, my friends like her, and still I never call her my girlfriend right up front. I never even refer to her by her name. It’s usually just “my one friend,” or sometimes “my friend from Minnesota.”
The thing is, I have this great job in Illinois, tech research shit, and she has a fantastic job with this broadcasting company. She has a fantastic ass, too.
Which brings me back to the horses inspiring me. I see this girl once, twice a month. I stare at her ass like nobody’s business. I don’t grab it in public, and only in private when she’s in a good mood.
She’s skinny, got the nearly non-existent hips going on, the long, slender legs, the tight abs.
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I also have a couple pages of journal entry from spring break 2. That will come tomorrow.
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