“You’ve got to HAND it to me, am I right?”
I was dressed as a hand for Halloween.
It would be widely considered
the least creative costume of the past decade.
She wore a paper grocery bag and a tiara
trying to recreate some book from her childhood.
Later, a drunk girl with a face like the bottom of a bucket
asked us if we were doing a couple costume, if we were
“the act of bringing groceries in from the car.”
When people make guesses at my costume,
I always tell them they’re exactly right.
The lights flicker a warning:
Last call at the bowling alley.
We’re uncomfortable in our molded plastic seats
and the bottom of our beer-soaked plastic cups.
We’re getting excited and slur-word
while asking the hard-hitting questions like:
Why are bowling shoes two different colors?
and how can anyone truly hate Taylor Swift?
You’re silently planning our wedding,
and naming our unborn children.
I’m elbow deep in one of those sweaty rolling hot dogs
the bowling alley dude was just about to throw out.
“TALK ABOUT GOOD TIMING, EH?”
We’re back-down at the train station.
Aged wooden planks older than numbers or God.
We stare at the dark sky,
travelling together, slow and steady.
Drugs kick in (and out)
The last days of summer rattle by.
Our hearts are the end of a good book
are hands are angry diamonds in the dark.
We drove a car into the desert.
The desert can be the same size as a city, but when talking about a desert, the lack of significant points of interest make it all one place. Point of interest is often refereed to as POI for short. That’s not to say one wouldn’t say “We drove our car into New York City.” That’s a pretty acceptable thing to say as well, it’s just that when one pushed for further details, one could definitely be more specific. This would be much more difficult in the desert. I said “the” desert just now, but in actual fact, there are many. There are many deserts with few POI’s.
We drove a car into the desert.
In this instance the type of car doesn’t really matter I suppose, although, if it’s a meth-lab RV with smoke billowing out of it, one may want to mention that fairly early in the story. An RV’s not a car though, so I think we’re ok there. I think though, that the car becomes insignificant and the reason one is driving into the desert becomes the focus. This gives a bit of a nod to my earlier point really. If you said you were driving your car into New York City, one wouldn’t really be mystified as to why. New York City is often referred to as NYC for short. Because NYC has so many POIs someone driving a car there isn’t strange or mysterious. A gajillion* people do it every day. However because the destination, is the desert, we gotta ask the question, why? What’s up, driver?
*It should be noted I used the term ‘gajillion’ because I had no idea the actual number of people travelling to, or living in NYC. I was lazy and didn’t want to research the topic, and I felt I should make up a number rather than guess and look like an idiot. It should be noted however that I did look up the term gajillion to make sure it wasn’t a real number, for fake number purposes. There’s some weird numbers out there man, like googolplex** and whatnot.
**I also looked up googolplex to make sure it was a real number.
I was 21 years old the first time I read poetry in public. It was at a tiny diner called the paris crew cafe at 12 Charlotte street in Saint John, NB. My friend Chris Daigle had invited me to read, and like most of my readings, I shared the night with musicians.
There was a $5 cover for the show and most of my friends at the time couldn’t afford such an extravagance. (neither could I for that matter.
The reading went well overall, I was awkward and probably read for far too long, and most of what I read was pretty terrible, but it was received well enough, and most people there seemed to say nice things to me.
I got my first piece of valuable feedback that night, not after the reading but during, also not between poems, but again, during. An swaying audience member who’d joined us from the neighboring rookies’ pub interrupted me mid poem to tell me I was reading to fast. “SLOW DOWN” came the call from the back of the room.
For me though, as a budding writer of sorts, it was a momentum shift. Things were different after that reading, and I threw myself into the craft. I wasn’t very good at it, and never really got much better, but I did it every day, and when one does something everyday you almost can’t help but to pick up a few things.
tiredeyes.net is 10 years old this year, it’s hayday for regular readers and quality writing has come and gone. It’s been neglected, beat up, ignored and basically left to die. Hopefully over the next 10 years, I can bring it back to life.
“You never write anymore,” she said, flipping through an old, embarrassing book of shitty poetry I wrote a hundred and fifty years ago.
“All you ever do is watch deadliest catch on netflix, and drink coffee.”
Hobbies & Interests:
Watching shitty TV & drinking black coffee
There used to be something romantic about 5 am.
The quiet newness, and still-shaky legs of a brand new day.
The air used to be electric, like you were doing something you shouldn’t be,
like you were part of a secret club, and in a way, I guess you were.
In the car during the dark winter mornings
the heater works overtime defrosting the windows
An unmanned CBC plays aboriginal talk radio
and I turn it down low to remind myself that I’m not the only person on the planet
You’re like 400 years old today.
Stairs are terrible
and groups of loud, happy teenagers.
Music has changed in almost every way,
Metal is definitely out.
Punk is still ok,
but only in your car, in the summer
behind a pair of sunglasses you lost then found again.
On days like those you’re a 21-year-old kid again
Rich with potential,
greedy with it
The world’s most oblivious millionaires.
Everyone you knew when you were younger was writing
the next great American novel.
Too broke to buy paper,
but somehow never too far away from a case of beer.
Now those same people actually know how to file taxes
and buy shoes instead of sneakers.
Crossing your legs used to be kind of faggy
but somewhere along the way became ok to do.
Booze is better; darker
Although you drink too much of it now
and fall asleep before you’re supposed to.
You’re moving slower
and you’re cranky about gas prices
and the housing market.
and your pants that don’t fit
and in the end, time is to blame, really.
Time, and chocolate
Punk shows in the tiny room above O’leary’s,
the floor so greasy with beer and nestle quick
we had to hold each other up
and we did.
You’re filing taxes with your hair up,
and I could write an entire novel about a photograph taken of you.
We’re both considering our impending dental appointments,
and I’m working on what to wear, and when to start flossing.
We’re laying on the thinly-carpeted second floor
of a townhouse your parents are renting.
I am uneasy with the lack of commitment
implied both by renting, and by townhouses.
Later, we watch a movie with a talking mouse in it.
The mouse isn’t really talking, but they make it look like he is.
Hospital time is real time doubled,
then divided by the waistline of the nurse with whom you have the best shot.
The man sitting across from me had been tying his shoe for twenty minutes
and I can see the dying wife all over his face.
Behind me, a woman with a voice like forest fire.
tells an insensitve joke about the afterlife
A man buying lumber across the street
tells the exact same joke, at the exact same time.
When the nurse calls your name the sound of it skids across the waxed floor tiles
and thuds against the long set of windows overlooking a night-quiet parking lot.