im/personal attacks

i'm glad you're here anyway man. it's nice
having friendly faces around.
i thought you said they were treating you better.
they are. most of them. but some of them
it's not their fault.
well can't you tell them about it?
it's not that easy man. i can't just
do it. i get really scared. i ask
for answers but when i come back
all that's there is a blank page. then i
always erase my question. i'm afraid
other people will see it.
i thought you said you were happier.
i am. i definitely am. it's just
the ups make the downs so much worse, man.
like the trips home, running errands,
and acting, acting, again, over the phone,
at the receptionist's desk,
using my hat with the long earflaps as a tool,
jutting my shoulderblades out like a
failed attempt at flight.
i don't need classes.
i'm a pro.
at what? acting? failing? flying?
that's a dumb question.

innocuous

is it okay if i have dreams about
shishkebabs and american summers?
of visiting the grocery store with you on a
hot afternoon? (i'm pretty sure
i was wearing flip-flops and shorts)
living like a suburban dad without
the triviality. drinking st. pauli girl
non-alcoholic on the porch while
the sun goes down and the mosquitoes
try in vain to batter their way through
the screen. going inside and turning
on the radio, dancing stupidly to some
bad 80s rock song. feeling like the
luckiest guy on earth. is that okay?

Last Days

(this week we imitate George Herbert. basically pull a metrical/rhyme scheme out of your ass and follow that. enjoy)

How long have you been underneath his thumb?
He preys on you with cloying pleasantries.
Let your dark reveries loose.
Muster the deaf and the dumb.
With one light touch he brings you to your knees.
How long will you submit to this abuse?

He'll hold you close to him and take your hands,
But just so he can draw the blood from them.
Skim off the film from your eyes.
Gather the grit and the sand.
I know you have it in you to condemn.
Relinquish your subservient disguise,

And cast at him what armaments you've saved.
The vultures will make him a suitable grave.

sleeping sickness (or: 10 points if you can guess what song i've been listening to on repeat)

i was thinking of drinking you goodbye
but to drown my sorrows i will
instead use a car underwater,
where i'll have some time to think,
i hope, on when the scales
glued themselves back to my eyes
or swung to tilt the other way.
no one's going to bother me down here
so don't bother looking.
i need to step back because i keep
trying to talk through the glass
but i'm all alone right now.
i think i hit upon the first step
to recovery but the water's
pouring in too fast. i need
a little more time. can you please
slow down the clock for me? can you please?

On listening to the False Institutions EP by Prawn too loud around 9 p.m., driving past Rhode Island's Only Truck Stop (or: stupid kid)

"it's a sad, sad ending to a real bad story"
is this the right song for me to be
listening to? i've had nightmares.
my wife died the other night.
i've drowned. twice. but i can deal.
that's why i'm still writing about it.
i take things as they come and i hold them.
i'm not paying attention and i drive too slow.
i switch off the heat and hope not to remain a
sad, sad ending to a real bad story.

hard luck woman

"she's a real woman." that's what
the bartender used to say. she makes a habit of
pulling herself up by her bootstraps.
she won't accept your coat but she'll
take it from you and then light a cigarette
to keep herself warm. you're lucky.
you're not one of the casualties.
not one of the ones she shot down without breaking
a sweat. she makes a habit of that too.
and you've seen her when she sweats.
like i told you before. you're lucky.
but it's not always that clear.
sometimes she finds the blood under
your fingernails and then she gets angry.
she never walks out though. she shows you.
she cuts you up and throws your pistol on the bed.
but you don't have time for this so just
call her babydoll and lock the door behind her.

Star-Crossed

(in which we imitate Gerard Manley Hopkins, so I am forced to make up some emo bullshit that rhymes)

In youth I was told over and over again
That it was virtuous to trudge on, to persevere
Through doubt, catch and conquer fear
With the help of courage and friends,

But I can barely remember the last time when
My way forward was that noble or clear
As it emerged from the end of the previous year
To extract the shining now from the mires of then,

Because I can't stop thinking about your
Turned shoulder, the resolute tilt of your chin
Above your loose-knit scarf as you shut the door.
No, I can't keep from seeing where I've been,
But soon enough I won't be seeing anymore,
So if this is giving in, I guess I'm giving in.

some poems make me feel like an asshole (or: a jock poem in two stanzas)

Fall
by Conor Meehan

It was a cool, crisp November morning
when he went away.
The goodbye was short.
I had school.
I didn’t know how.
Part of me wanted to believe
he’d still be there when I got home.
Part of me also knew better.

I scurried off the yellow school bus,
anxious to get home.
Maybe he’d be there.
He wasn’t.
I swam through the sea of
family that had gathered in the dining room.
Finally making it to my room upstairs,
I wept.
Lifting my head from the tear stained pillow,
I peered out the window.
His car was in the driveway.
He wasn’t.