Derelictions

October 2010 | back-issues, poetry

The Digital Conversion box in my head

Gets distracted by errant traffic upstairs.

Keith David: Narrator of all our lives,

pleasantly reciting all our yesterdays, for the right price.

Ken Burns all around. Ubiquitous. Educating Me.

Helping me think American.Now that the sun, having indeed set, I

no longer a true Englishman.Having learned to be a stars and stripes liberal. Now I know all about

Baseball

The civil war

our national forests

World War Two

Jazz

Abraham Lincoln

Louis Armstrong

The faces of critics and experts. Their wiseness.

Stanley Crouch’s football head.

The nasal whine of Gary Giddins: (His voice which reminds me of a kid I punched for no reason whatsoever in school one day, because the timbre of his enunciation just irritated me)

Thank you all!I now own the boxed set. The book. The soundtrack. It’s like I know Hank Gates and Simon Schama. Now I can say, sincerely, at cocktail parties, with a straight face, that the two greatest betrayals of the Twentieth Century were The Pact of Steel and Dylan at Newport. Now can we all hold hands

Shake our bling and sing

“This Land is Your Land!!”

6 a.m.- 9a.m.

October 2010 | back-issues, poetry

The snow may be 9 1/2″ deep, but

I’m a resourceful He-Manly man, man.

Up at 5 a.m.

Layering layers upon layers.

I stagger around, puffy, prepared.

Stagger and sass, sass some more,

dawn dreaming in the inky dark.

As the sun slowly rises, grunting

like some 47-year-old ex-NFL quarterback,

I am the magnificent soloist maestro,

wielding my shovel heroically,

I dig a moat around my mansion,

clear the way for my wife and her wee dark-green Honda.

Staggering back inside, I take off some of my layers,

wake the kid, kiss the wife goodbye,

bulk up our bellies with oatmeal,

dress him in layers, vaseline his tiny gob and cheeks.

I relayer myself, and then we go for the bus.

Two grand staggerers on an epic intrepid Dr. Zhivago walk,

bobbing and weaving through dirty gray snowbanks,

which have fresh crunchy snow layering their tops, and,

really, I wouldn’t mention the frozen dog shit,

except it’s fucking everywhere,

so that 31st is a toxic knickerbocker glory.

When the bus arrives, its engine stuttering as it vibrates against snow banks

I climb up the dirty mountain, lift the boy up and over

and nod at my fellow warrior, the bus driver.

Once home, I peel off my layers. Blow

my nose so hard it hurts my ears,

savor a cup of tea, listen

as my knee cartilage creaks. Listen

as my neighbors struggle to start their engines. Listen

to the ranting on Sports Radio. Wonder

at the warm wire I feel through the muscle in my heart.

Struggling up the stairs, turning up the heat, I

run a bath, spit out snot and get naked.

I bathe, ponder my aging balls.

Look at the clock: 9 a.m.

Now it’s under the covers and

sleep.

Definitely A Whimper

October 2010 | back-issues, poetry

I’ve seen the
greatest minds of my generation

busted for
malfeasance.

Crying glib
crocodile tears.

The codpiece of
tenure ripped aside like so much recycled paper.

Keening.

Staggering
through Bridgeport,

foul of breath
from ersatz Cuban panatellas,

singing out tthe
true stories of their lives,

fuelled by
Maker’s Mark, Dylan and a heaped tablespoonful of self-pity.

Embittered.

Half-written
memoirs, unfinished romains,

the glorious
shimmering stank of student pussy in their mustaches.

Trapped in the
afterglow of the grins of lesbian colleagues.

Their chances
now doubly improved, they smile,

bask in your
misery. A Superior predator

Grateful.

Their kids and
anti-trophy wives

like question
marks burned into forehead

by the tip of
the white-hot rapier that was once your own sense of humor

but now belongs
to your spawn.

Crying.

Yeah, cry,
motherfucker, you only went into teaching for the three free months
of summer

so you could
disappoint your parents,

show off your
scintillating repartee

and shagshagshag
little slags.

Laugh.

Gigglle when you
encounter the winners.

Their classrooms
trouble free.

Risk averted at
the very gates.

The dross
propaganda of Derrida, Beaudrillard and f-f-f-fucking Foucault,

dead without a
gutter, without a singular tear.

Hallelujah.

I’ve seen the
greatest minds of my generation purple with envy.

Preaching
against the national debt .

Haunted by the
prospect of perpetual war,

and a singular
dream where their children’s children bear prayer rugs.

Dream.

World’s end, as
the sun, a pitted, acne-infected orange,

spitting its
haliotosis accompanied by a bass-heavy worldbeat soundtrack,

weights and
measures,

whimpers-versus-bangs

God and the
devil in the final World Series.

Marriage

October 2010 | back-issues, poetry

I explain. You

hear shouting. You

regroup. I see

you’ve picked my scab.

You are reasonable. I

see shades clipped onto your bifocals. I

apologize profusely. You

sniff out expedience.

I am a nice Jewish dove. You

say I’m crazy, like Saul. You

throw me an olive branch. I

am cut by its thorns.

You gush blood. I

see no tears. You

will not take a dive. I

have loved you for eleven years.