Eating Marshmallows
Off Of Crowbars
weather breaking free
from the weakened sky
and north I go
listening to the dirty
engine of morning remind
me that there are
many, many parts
of the Vietnam
in my head
that need fixing—
love making and all those
other empties I’ve tossed
in the backseat with half-eaten
egg salad sandwiches
but really, all that brown paper
bag stuff is so much more
about my Watts Towers
than it is your Sistine Chapel—
like when you say to me
you are like so and so
and I say nope—
too late, sucker!
that’s you! you!! you!!!
yeah, we can high five
for hours and then slap
each others’ asses
but so what—a basketball hoop
freshly painted will work
as anyone’s favorite
sweaty-necked
dancing partner
come on, it’s easy—
say it with me now
and you’ll be forgiven
then we can play
together—in this gorilla-
chained rain, my mouth
is all the beasts
favorite butcher shop
Modern Man’s Hustle
(after Jake Keeler)
Raw with night sweats in the morning, & rocked
& ravaged by the spring downpour,
We winnowed our way to a place
Neon-signed, a road narrow
Curved with sweetbriar & passing cars
Whose drivers gave us the finger.
While we slept, someone had shaved
Our eyebrows over & over
& the make-up we bought at Kum N’ Go
Was made from berries. This, the God
In the dashboard rumbled, brings you
Closer to mother-earth. Bullshit, I sang,
Because I wanted more malt-liquor-
Time. I wanted Frogger and Hot Tamales.
Something closer to a car-fire, the blisters
That form on fingertips from ringing
Someone’s doorbell until the police show up
To play your ribs like a xylophone.
It must have been entertaining
To see our mouths drop when they sentenced us.
If only they’d seen us stand in the corner
Covering our balls. Surely, that would have brought
The house down. But in this life, we must
Be sure never to ask for too much info
About who we really are. You know
What I mean, brother? For too many years
We have been driven to this country-road-ditch
To pick up cigarette butts & Bud Light cans
With the rest of the orange-clad dummies.
It’s in our eyes now—that whatever
Is meant to be—hands washed over
& over until there can’t be fingerprints
Or warmth. The drips. Of blessings,
Unwrapped & tossed. Faces sunsetting,
Blurred windows. The streaks. The blessings.
Alex Lemon’s first collection of poems is
Mosquito (Tin House Books). His poems have appeared in such
magazines as Tin House, Denver Quarterly, AGNI, Gulf Coast, and
Pleiades. He is also a frequent contributor to The Bloomsbury
Review and the co-editor of LUNA. Among his awards
are a 2005 Literature Fellowship in Poetry from the National Endowment
for the Arts and a 2006 Minnesota Arts Board Grant. A memoir is also forthcoming
from Scribner.
Back
to Issue #7
|
