Arnold and Benny go on a Bender

The Oddessey.

The superman flakes. he eats for breakfast. Nearly ihvincible Nearly Benny. He is the absolute.

He is not an animal. And all the circus animals love them. For them, there is piece.

Mullin g awndwhirling and these are the end, I’m told, of all thihgs.

A tempest A rampart. A slope, a complication of the masterminds.\\

A clog.

You’ll do well. You have the acrobatics of a child.

The details of this one don't matter. Just know that I would have written more if a man that I had never seen before hadn't come down the stairway that I was sitting on to tell me to stop shouting the words as I was writing them. I told him I couldn't, but we compromised that I would just pass out instead. 2009 (I think).

It is Important that Our Nonsense Be Put to Good Use

I thought of another reason why I write poetry (aside from getting all the bitches).

Every emotion we've felt, all the things we've thought, and especially all the paragraphs we have ever written. . . has been done better some somebody else in the past. There have been too many good speechwriters, too many good movies, and too many good novelists.

That love note you wrote last week? Yeah, she probably would have preferred a different poem by some ancient poet, although neither of you know it. Those jokes you told? Some primeval comedian has already told them better, my friend.

So, sometimes poetry is an attempt to break down that wall. The wall that holds us doomed to echo what has already been said by smarter dudes in better ways. I'll never do it of course--I'm too damn stupid--but to continue the metaphor: Headbutting the wall is a more efficient way to break through it than taking a nap in front of it.

It is important that we all put our nonsense to good use.

Cheers

The loneliest man in the world
Penned these silly words one night.
He’s just one step to the left of center
And a quarter million miles to the right.

Yon tripfinger fox-hearted god
Hath mischief’d upon that which he didst create.
Some silly sod has installed the wrong driver—
This device cannot communicate.

And though he spoons with his IQ at night,
And his imagination sweetly speaks discourse,
All around best friends seem to happen,
Just not to him, of course.

Nor can true love truly
(Neither to nor from).
Your strange arms cannot reach him.
You’d easier reach the sun.

Thus are the complaints of some odd animal.

There’s a lesson in this, I think.
That since you cannot save him,
For fucking fuck’s sake, just buy him a drink.


This is why I hate happy movies. I will never love anyone like that, no one will ever love me like, and I will never win 20 million rupees on a game show. I'm serious about the last line, though. Secret Training #2, 2009.

The Instruments They Played

on the sinking ship were plunged into the water
and only the brave tuba was not afraid

reflections of stars pricked the brass
the clarinets clung to each other
even as a girl in a white dress clung to the cello
and nearly broke a string in her carelessness

the violin struck up a dirge
in a minor key
but the others did not join
some oceans are too cold for leadership

the trumpet played a famous reveille
(only a little bit ruined by all the splashing men)
that had cheered many young sons
into tidy graves on soft hills

the brave tuba played alongside
and its notes swelled with emotion
thinking of the gentle trumpet
they would always have paris

a pod of dolphins joined in then
(although most of them were off key)
and they nosed the girl in white
after she stiffened upon the cello and slid off

and then the brass was gone
gone to glitter on some secret reef
to grow old and green with corrosion
and be filled with families of fat eels

the woodwinds were whistling
the high D they played when they were deathly afraid
even as their reeds swelled with water
and thickened in their wet mouths

the loyal cello watched the woodwinds sink
it had thus far tried to accommodate everyone
having first played a bass line for the brass
it now attempted to join the violin

but the violin fell silent at this
and tried to splash water into the cello
the violin was not very good at this
and almost wept with frustration

when the laws of buoyancy
offered a resting place
the violin was quick to take it
and sank in a huff

the cello was alone then
any shouting had long since stopped
the only sounds were the small splashes
against its lacquered sides

it tried playing a few bars
but it had always been an accompanying piece
and didn't know any songs written
for a cello alone at sea

so it rolled over
and let the cold water fill it



So I went to an open mic night and I learned that I am a shitty poet. Not to be discouraged, I began my secret training. 2009.

Vapors Push Up Through

vapors push up through
the ground like fingers and hateful little
leaves change direction and intersect
clicking at my shins with tiny mouse teeth

soldier boot vodka sinks through
disturbing something rolling in its sleep
and I can’t stop falling down
and I can’t stop falling down

the empty streets I weave through
when I've had too much to think
and bushes slouch like lepers and I startle
at cats and shadows of cats

2009, but from really old notes (2005?)

The Lobsters in the Walls

careful with mom's glasses
she has a bad cold
and if she doesn't wear them
she won't be able to see the lobsters in the walls
they will come out from their secret doors
and crack all her bones with their claws
and scoop the insides out with the thin spoons
that only lobsters can use

the little bottles beside her bed
are so that she can shake them at the lobsters
and lobsters are so scared of rattlesnakes
that they will drop their spoons and run
and the house will echo with the sound
of little legs clicking and tripping
and a thousand tiny spoons
tumbling down the stairs

the men in white coats are lobster scientists
they are going to build an ocean
in our basement and a tiny moon
on top of the water heater
so that we can have tides
and then all the lobsters will come out of the walls
and live there with jellyfish umbrellas
and wear whatever fish is most fashionable
that's when the lobster scientists send in the divers
with lobster guns

a red octopus took her hair to eat it
under his porch in the ocean
because that is all that red octopuses eat
but first he probably rolled around in it
because it reminded him of seaweed
and his red babies who are all gone now
it was probably that octopus who told the lobsters
where we live and drew a map
octopuses are very good at maps

dad only cries sometimes
because mom hasn't been making food
and he hasn't had hardly anything to eat
also he doesn't like her hats
even though the green one is really pretty
and maybe he is scared of the lobsters too

stop holding mom's glasses so tight
you're going to break them
and you are getting tears on them
you don't have to worry about it
because if you hear any lobsters in the walls
just cover your ears and look away
lobsters hate to be ignored
that is their only weakness


So, I just finished my essay and wrote a bunch of drivel to celebrate. This one was my favourite of the bunch.

I've Seen Enough Movies

I’ve seen enough movies
To know what to say,
When a girl says,
“I love you.”

But I envy the actors
Who thumb through their lines
Before they commit
To the role.



I like this one. 2006.

Limerick #10

There once was a peasant named Clyde,
Whose clothes were so drab that he cried.
His dirty grey garment,
Made him so despondent,
That one day, he just. . .dyed.

I love this one. I wrote it for a friend in two minutes back in, say, 2006?

Myxoma

If the wheel of rebirth be so kind,
Grant that I may be return as the tumor nearest your heart,
Hungry and wet like sex-slicked fingers,
To keep you warm as you grow cold.

2006?

The Last of the Night

Extensively pensive I mused on the night,
When the blight of the sleeper slow-creeped into sight,
To blister and blast the eyes I held tight.
Oh, how I hate morning light.

So bind the blinds and follow the fight--
My respite is removing! I’ll shut in the night!
Spiteful and trite, I watch it breath bright.
Oh, how I hate, how I hate morning light.

This one's old. 2005, I think. It's a shitty poem, but I wrote it all in anapaest meter and was inordinately proud as a result. The pride endures.

Expulsion

I’ve alphabetized my bookshelf,
learned the foxtrot and the tango,
been taught fifty-three words in Chinese,
and my room has never been cleaner.

I’ve been drunk for two weeks,
—twenty plus shots most nights—
won a painting of a tiger in an arm-wrestling contest,
and danced with the most beautiful girl.

I’ve talked to my parents,
Dad called me an ass,
warned me not to tell anyone.
But Mom just cried.

I’m looking at the wet faces on this bus,
kids left for too long in the rain,
bent double under the weight of forty pounds
of books and notes and planners.

My backpack hardly weighs anything:
Just a fifth of rum,
some thin readmission forms,
and a coupon for a haircut.

2007?

Testicles

In a clinic by the tracks, a man with a white lab coat
calls it cryptorchidism,
and tucks his clipboard back under his arm, like a bat wing.
An undescended testicle.
A terrible thing.
Just a lopsided sac, half-full of empty.
One ball for all.

Now I’ll never win a competition.

There are things called neuticles—fake testicles.
He can take some measurements today,
and order a replacement in exactly the same size.
Of course, they can’t guarantee the roundness, firmness.

The judges would definitely notice that.

There is a procedure that uses a scalpel
to coax the prodigal orb alongside its brother.
It only takes ten minutes,
but the Board strictly condemns this practice
as barbaric.
With a smooth hand on my shoulder, he is sorry.
The best he can do is an excision of both testicles.

Fuck.

With that, I look down at my Bluetick Coonhound,
Purebred, AKC registered.
His lineage lists a number of champions.
But his huge eyes are unaware of this,
—Just as they are unaware of the deformity under his tail—
And he licks my hand, eager to be at home playing puppy games.


2008.

ants

cold air is thin in my lungs
waking up before dawn
dead ants across my face

sat up slowly carefully
wiped their dead queen from my eye
had eggs for breakfast



I remember this morning. 2006 or 07.

Hush

something is moving in the darkness

a big broken thing
its body like a bruise
its face like a needle

it crouches in sunless rooms
and blinks at red lights
it must wait itself to sleep each night

the bleeding never stops
dying seems to take a lifetime
but it is very patient

it has a tongue but only barely
and no words pass over it
there is only hush and gasp

listen closer
something is moving in the darkness

it rests on its knuckles
as it opens its mouth
wider and wider




I wrote this last night, from old notes. It needs polish, but I like it. Buddha knows we need more horror poetry in the world.

Just a Note

My hard drive gave up the ghost in 2007 when I tried to take it home for the summer. A boy needs his porn, after all. When I hooked it back up, I found that it was dead. The airport baggage handlers were incompetent apes, and my hard drive was dead. The ghost was not in the machine.

Yesterday, I attempted the impossible. No noble reason, I just felt that frustration was better than boredom. So, in the spirit of everyone who has ever tried to lick their elbow or put a key back on a laptop keyboard, I tried my hard drive again.

And fuck me sideways but it worked. Holy clamchop.

So, I got all my old poems back. I forgot about them immediately, as I was reunited with the porn of my youth. But when I returned from my filthy revelry, I decided that I never wanted to lose them again. Never ever.

I also decided the same thing for the poems. And so I am posting them here, because the internet is the most immortal thing I know.

This is stupid.

Yes.