Saturday, December 31, 2011
TRASH AMERICAN STYLE #6
for Phil Cordelli and Brandon Shimoda
Every time you ask me to write
I forget or you forget that
I build
In the basement I leave the nozzles open
Run upstairs to check on the kid
Throw bread out of the toaster
Strum three Rolling Stones chords
Over the kid resembles a periscope
I brought the kid to sanitarium
He made friends immediately with two birds
In the waiting area
Cages
Yellow striking
A color worn to elicit luck
Like a white arm that spins in circles
The joint is loose
Remember that place where we ate meatball subs?
Saw Nick after how many years?
He looked the same they all did anyway
I was saying something about building
You can measure the gravity with this device
I rigged from a level I found in the mound of dirt near the baseball field
I don't know you wrote that poem years ago
It was one of your first poems I didn't understand it
I don't understand it
How about pricks beneath super dark trees
Over the left field fence
Tim who lived in the house through the woods
Would pretend to know how to spin his arm like a cat
I saw him walking down the road
Facial air
Was striking also
That is where we slept outdoors in the rain
I can barely leave my room
Magazines get delivered directly to my room
I am not addicted enough
"Come down into the basement" whoever said that
Sitting on a mini fridge playing the guitar
Whoever bought Danish cookies anyway ate them
A green cloud passing over means the rain is going to come hard
Understand what pricks would be doing beneath super dark trees
Or were the pricks a metaphor
Or super dark trees
I could never spin my arms like a cat
Drunken snakes they get drunk in the first place
My uniform was blue or blue was the color of my uniform
My uniform was white
I studied your line breaks I think they make sense at ;east
"Come down into the basement" some red-headed kid said
It wasn't his head that was red it wasn't his hair exactly red
Either whatever
How many lines is this supposed to be?
How do you know when a poem is done?
How do you know when a poem is a poem?
You sound like Lisa Turtle
She's on a date with that dude she thinks is really smart
He thinks he's really smart he's a turd
He wears a sweater vest or cardigan whatever
It is she says
Something like
Is art art? Are we art? And the turd gets a boner
Under the table
They're at the Max
Its the turd's boner that is art
It grows directly through the screen
And threatens the safety of everything within it
As any art is art should threaten it
Was much easier when I was trapped in a room
Only five hours to get the whole thing done
I could commiserate with the girls that kept me company
Commiseration became inspiration you know what I mean
I plugged the whole fucking thing in the world went dark
With possibility that kind
I was walking down a road in winter
People were shouting my name out car windows
I felt like somebody
I felt like that with you
I felt like that with you too
I never sweat so much or looked so crazy
But I was building building something daily
Even if just scratching figures into plaster
Seemed like everything was possible
Strumming the strings with a monkey paw
Getting felt up on the subway home
for Phil Cordelli and Brandon Shimoda
Every time you ask me to write
I forget or you forget that
I build
In the basement I leave the nozzles open
Run upstairs to check on the kid
Throw bread out of the toaster
Strum three Rolling Stones chords
Over the kid resembles a periscope
I brought the kid to sanitarium
He made friends immediately with two birds
In the waiting area
Cages
Yellow striking
A color worn to elicit luck
Like a white arm that spins in circles
The joint is loose
Remember that place where we ate meatball subs?
Saw Nick after how many years?
He looked the same they all did anyway
I was saying something about building
You can measure the gravity with this device
I rigged from a level I found in the mound of dirt near the baseball field
I don't know you wrote that poem years ago
It was one of your first poems I didn't understand it
I don't understand it
How about pricks beneath super dark trees
Over the left field fence
Tim who lived in the house through the woods
Would pretend to know how to spin his arm like a cat
I saw him walking down the road
Facial air
Was striking also
That is where we slept outdoors in the rain
I can barely leave my room
Magazines get delivered directly to my room
I am not addicted enough
"Come down into the basement" whoever said that
Sitting on a mini fridge playing the guitar
Whoever bought Danish cookies anyway ate them
A green cloud passing over means the rain is going to come hard
Understand what pricks would be doing beneath super dark trees
Or were the pricks a metaphor
Or super dark trees
I could never spin my arms like a cat
Drunken snakes they get drunk in the first place
My uniform was blue or blue was the color of my uniform
My uniform was white
I studied your line breaks I think they make sense at ;east
"Come down into the basement" some red-headed kid said
It wasn't his head that was red it wasn't his hair exactly red
Either whatever
How many lines is this supposed to be?
How do you know when a poem is done?
How do you know when a poem is a poem?
You sound like Lisa Turtle
She's on a date with that dude she thinks is really smart
He thinks he's really smart he's a turd
He wears a sweater vest or cardigan whatever
It is she says
Something like
Is art art? Are we art? And the turd gets a boner
Under the table
They're at the Max
Its the turd's boner that is art
It grows directly through the screen
And threatens the safety of everything within it
As any art is art should threaten it
Was much easier when I was trapped in a room
Only five hours to get the whole thing done
I could commiserate with the girls that kept me company
Commiseration became inspiration you know what I mean
I plugged the whole fucking thing in the world went dark
With possibility that kind
I was walking down a road in winter
People were shouting my name out car windows
I felt like somebody
I felt like that with you
I felt like that with you too
I never sweat so much or looked so crazy
But I was building building something daily
Even if just scratching figures into plaster
Seemed like everything was possible
Strumming the strings with a monkey paw
Getting felt up on the subway home