flying irishman




I'm doing 13 things
 

How I did it
How to do napowrimo 2009 (a poem a day during April)
It took me
30 days
It made me
introspective


Recent entries
Complete NaPoWriMo (write a poem a day in April) 2014 (read all 8 entries…)
Club

The club isn’t for the likes of you.
The club is for those of us who need a little
extra burst of thirst-quenching energy.
For those of us who need to hide our fear of decay.
It’s just a little place in the city on a couple hundred acres
where some can relax a while, forget their worries
& indulge in memories of their wildest desires.
The club is for the rich & the wise.
The club was never intended to stand for
anything more than justice, love & the American Way.
You understand why we don’t want you lingering here
on our sidewalk on a day it might rain.
The club is for people who matter in this world
or for those who would have mattered if only
they hadn’t pissed their futures away
in a rage of adolescent suffering & ecstasy.
With its elegant old growth trees,
manicured thickest green lawns,
private docs and yacht cleaning service,
tennis courts, spa, Olympic pool,
shuffle board courts, indoor hockey rinks
in the colder months, championship golf courses,
lounges & two five star restaurants, serving
the finest delicacies membership can buy,
the club is just an oasis in the ugly sprawl
of our dark-cornered state capital city.
It’s where some nice people who deserve a little
harmony & truth in their well-disciplined lives
can gather & maybe even be happy.
But it’s not for the likes of you
or any of you gloomy sourpusses.
You’ll never appreciate the finer things life offers
& don’t deserve what you have.
Go on now, don’t make me have to look at you.



Complete NaPoWriMo (write a poem a day in April) 2014 (read all 8 entries…)
At a knock on the door

At a knock on the door

I startled.
At a knock on the door,
I ran for the fire escape.
I rolled over. I played dead.
As the knock turned to banging,
I yelled “For Christ’s sake,
Let me sleep!”
At a knock on the door,
I lit a cigarette for the first time ever.
I was glad for the interruption
Of my restless, angry scheming.
At a knock on the door,
I reached for my
Sawed-off shotgun and replied,
“The door’s open! Entre!”
At a knock on the door,
I began to weep.
At a knock on the door,
I laughed with bitter hysteria.
I started to get out of the tub
and look for my trousers.
“Hold your horses,” I called out.
“Be with you in a minute.
But it’s too late—
You’ve ruined everything.”
At a knock on the door,
I composed myself
the best I am able,
padded across the hotel carpet
and with trembling hands,
opened the door
to the women with badges,
the babies in baskets,
the freaks and praying mantises,
the pickpockets and politicians,
the firemen and voice instructors,
and I let them all in.



Complete NaPoWriMo (write a poem a day in April) 2014 (read all 8 entries…)
Driving ace

You learned a few months after
your 16th birthday
in this dark green station wagon
with the faux-wood side panels
your father has now placed in your possession
and in which you use
regularly to chauffeur to school
the first girl you will ever
obsess over the better part of each day.
Because the rear door won’t latch,
you keep it in mostly in place
with double-braided packing cord
tied from the rear
driver’s-side door handle
To the rear passenger-side door handle.
As you swerve down 44th Street
in thick traffic that slows
and speeds so much,
you don’t hesitate to ride the brakes,
you avoid completely stopping
by cranking the tired wheel
from the right to the left
To the right lane. On this cold morning,
you’re burning a lot of oil,
the huff of black smoke
from your tail pipe
rising in the crisp blue desert sky
in a line that can be seen,
an acquaintance will once tell you,
from his home in
the foothills a mile away.
Of course, the girl
declines to fasten her belt
beside you in this two-ton bolt bucket,
and when she’s in a good mood,
she likes to laugh at your prowess
behind the wheel, Her laughter
emboldens you to go a little faster,
crank the wheel a little closer
to the gleaming luxury cars beside you
in this master-class bedroom community
that you pass through to and fro
the private school your parents
have chosen for you to grow
closer to the Lord and His Beloved Son.
You may have resented that once.
But with this lovely person beside you
Enjoying the ride,
who are you to complain?
Though the drives last
just 20 minutes each way,
you remember them better than school.
Sometimes, it’s as though
you’re still in that car
driving a little faster,
though that stretch of four-lane,
the wagon and the school have
long since been destroyed.



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