Thursday, December 25, 2008

#3

home life, 
living at home, 
is exactly the same as it has always been.
My dad 
still fixes up the house every weekend.
he still
finds ways to slip me 20s and cover the small things.
he
tries so hard to let me live like some kind of upper-class kid
without me realizing it.
"no dad, i'll ride the bus i don't want to drive."
"i like goodwill dad."
 see, he grew up poor
with only a mother too afraid to let anyone see
she was afraid.
he still
tries so hard to make everyone happy that he to often
forgets about himself
which in turn makes me
pretty damn sad.
I wish he could realize how good of a parent he is,
and that no matter how hard he tries,
he can't make up for the 42 years
his dad has been gone.
My mother
still mirrors my grandmother with every passing day.
she is
always on her feet, doing something for someone.
and if you're sitting nearby, 
she'll bring you a bowl of pretzels without you asking.
she's always
thinking about anything related to her children
and
as much as i want her to be wrong,
she's usually right about lots of things.
she's 
fucking good at her job,
to raise money for a small college.
i saw her speak to some people she works with and 
she can talk to anybody.
she'd probably bring saddam hussein a bowl of pretzels 
if he was sitting in the next room.
my sister 
is different from me,
which makes giving her life advice,
which i'm supposed to give her,
hard.
she's still struggling
with her health,
with being overweight,
with making friends,
with picking which high school to attend.
see, i don't think she even knows
what kind of people she wants as friends,
and i sure as hell don't know.
my mom might.
her friends don't really call
and she plays it off as though 
when i get back in town, we'll hang out
but we never really did.
and she goes through hobbies
to keep herself out of boredom.
i see my father and mother struggling 
with my sister on so many fronts.
to keep her self esteem up.
to distract her mind
from pain.
i want to help so bad,
but anything i offer is only temporary 
because things will change
and i will leave.
and i can't say when i will be back 
for sure.
 
my mom leaned over to me in church yesterday
and said she was glad i was able to be home.
that's when it struck me that i was somewhere,
but i don't know if i would call it home.

Monday, December 22, 2008

#2

tonight i got caught up in
a movie!
a decent one, too. (!)
The guy, he was counting cards to
pay for college.
At one point i got so
involved
i had to pull myself back and
examine my own situation
as a kind of
reality check.
At first i was relieved to realize
nobody is going to beat me up over playing
a friendly game of blackjack.
but
then i realized i still have to pay 
for college.
this made the movie somewhat less
entertaining
and a little more
disheartening. 

maybe i should start counting cards. 

Sunday, December 21, 2008

#1

Here’s our man

in the basement of a building

constructed circa late 60’s,

his home, Looavull.

Looavull, Kentucky

no scratch that. 

in a basement-esque room in Iowa.

Ames, Iowa.

he’s playing nostalgia,

an air guitar.

his hair plays trampoline over his nose,

over his eyes.

his torso plays rocking chair

his feet play hot invisible coals under his feet.

and

his ears play late-teen alt pop punk

constructed circa mid 90’s. 

and reconstructed here,

and now. 

and now,

and every moment of these lines, 

until they end.

oblivious to him,

we exist. 

he will die first and we will die

never.

we watch him play,

whatever.

he will always be doing whatever,

but he will not always,

has not always

played.
we’ve been watching this man for a-

while 

and

I will recall

for you

(lazy bum)

our man, he doesn’t play

often.

his bedroom rock ecstasy

is intermittent,

interrupted by

Work

and 

Necessity. 

and

Contemplation. 

not that work can’t be fun,

and contemplation can’t be enlightening,

but

these are by no means adequate forms of

playing. 

only adequate means for

existing. 

(you have to make up your own

goddam mind if that’s good or bad. you

have to do some of the work)

as he abruptly skips 

two of the boring minutes and ends the effing song,

they cry,

we cry,

Encore!

Encore!

Encore!


***


No, scratch that, our man is in McDonald’s.

there’s a fucking billion of those.

pick one, wherever,

(I’m picking Utah)

and put him on a table,

jumping and

kicking trays and

meat patties 

all over McD’s playing his axe

while

mothers and fathers of Utah

(or wherever)

shield their young 

impressionable

children from the sheer atrocity of

play

elevated

(literally)

to such a level. 

 #this kind of thing should be limited to the confines of your room! child!#

(he’s fourteen, 

maybe,

here,

and now

but only for a few more lines)

can this level of fun be had

on the sticky tiled floor?

the answer is a definitive

maybe

play can only be achieved when one gathers

the jealous looks of those not able 

to have fun. 


***


Now he’s in california somewhere,

now Maine,

or wherever.

point being,

home is a four letter word.

and he still won’t know where 

to send his mail next year.