THE END OF THE WORLD

Somebody asked the world
if it liked clams and linguine.
The world said you ought to reverse it.
Reverse what somebody said.
Make it linguine and clams--
putting clams first is problematic.
Why asked somebody.
Because said the world clams belong to the sauce
but the sauce isn't as important as the type of pasta.
So you prefer linguine to clams.
You could say that.
Could I say that you prefer clams to fusili or rotini.
Yes you could say that.
So you like clams with fusili or rotini.
I do.
And linguine with clams.
Yes.
Do you even like clams?
But the world didn't hear somebody
ask the final question.
The final question the world ever heard
was the one before that.
The world then had a heart attack
and was rushed to the hospital
but perished in the ambulance.
In the interest of full disclosure
I admit that I am that somebody.
For years I have harbored the secret
guilt that I killed the world.
I think about it every time
I eat at the Olive Garden.
The waitresses all know to bring me
endless bowls of the same two dishes.

THE WORLD AND US

The world asked somebody a question the sound of underwear,
like freshly folded underwear.
It was spring and the flowers were out for a walk.
I stood on the flagstone path drinking a tonic.
The world sent an airplane across the sky at the precise moment
somebody started to answer the world.
Everyone watched the plane scribble its white crayon
across the blue paper way up there.
I asked a woman if her name was really Luann.
The world repeated its question, this time the sound of overalls,
overalls caked in mud from fourwheeling at the bog
with the Jeep doors off and the hard top off and the radio loud.
No one really got what the world wanted,
but we admitted it had a good way of speaking.

Me Reading Some Poems

I couldn't make it to AWP, but I did read with Timothy Gager, Mignon Ariel King, and Laura Cherry at the HallSpace Gallery in Dorchester, MA, on Saturday, February 21, 2009. It was a nice time. Tim was kind enough to record me reading two poems: "Myth" and "Human Nature." I wrote those poems for this blog and this is where they live. In fact, the HallSpace was the only other place besides this blog that they've ever been. They think it's good to be home.

Planned Obsolescence

Poems are flawed.

They fail because they end.

The perfect poem fails forever.

THIS GUY

I knew this guy who had a pet dog. Everyone else had zebras that just stood there eating grass, but this one guy had a dog that could do all these tricks. He named his dog Mitch and taught Mitch how to run a blog. Mitch did it pretty well, this guy thought. So he entered Mitch into a few blog races. A blog race is where blogs chase a fake rabbit around a track to see which one crosses the finish line first. Some people think it's cruel, but not this guy. He was totally banking on Mitch winning big. This guy had recently been fooled into a subprime mortgage that he couldn't afford. Each night he listened to Tom Ashbrook of WBUR talk to famous economists who prophesied the end of the world, or at least democratic capitalism. This guy was nervous. He'd stopped bathing. All he did was train Mitch, night and day. I used to go over in the evening and watch Mitch post. This guy knew Mitch would be the answer, and I started to think so, too. I told Jeff and Donna at work about Mitch, and pretty soon the three of us were subscribers to Mitch's RSS feeds. We formed a MySpace group called Believers in Mitch and, just for good measure, posted a few flyers around Allston with a picture of Mitch and Jeff's brother's cell phone number on it. Jeff's brother had loaned it to Jeff before going to prison. The next night we got a call from this guy. Yes, this guy. He said that Mitch had been hit by a car while crossing the street. Apparently Mitch had forgotten to look both ways because he was thinking about his next post. This guy said the first thing he saw after he'd scooped Mitch off the pavement was one of our flyers. He said Mitch would've liked that. This guy said it was crazy but he still believed in Mitch. One day, he said, just you wait.

THE DOG

He knew he shouldn't urinate inside. He remembered what had happened the last time he couldn't control himself. The man had not been happy. He had raised his voice and forced the dog's nose into the puddle. He locked the dog outside for the night, where the dog could urinate anywhere he wanted. It had been cold and dark and not even the exotic scents of wild animals could make him feel better. He feel asleep curled up in the pool of light seeping through the back door window. In his dream he dug through trash and treed a squirrel; in the morning he dug a hole in the garden and urinated on the same tree from his dream. The yard seemed big, then small. The world was a mystery. When the man appeared and made some kind sounds, the dog felt safe. He went back inside and ate food from his bowl, curled onto his bed, and fell asleep. He dreamt he crawled under the man's covers for a creature that smelled like applewood smoke. He awoke and roamed the rooms in search of the man. He drank some water and thought about dirt. Constantly, the urge to urinate.

MOUSTACHE

Back handlebar, in passing.
Three parts flour, two parts water.
Roux, nay, roue.
Plaster of Paris, TX.
A limp upper lip in lamb's wool.
Impeach fuzz.
Steaks.