FIGHT NIGHT At Christmastime Father gathers us all round the old radio to outline the reasons he hates Bruce Springsteen. In summertime Dave breaks his hand on the hood of a Thunderbird, we take cocaine and drive over to Mike's where Olivier, wearing a bandana around his neck, steals Dave's Grand Am and crashes it into a ravine. Mike's lying in an icy bathtub, I'm nearby vomiting orange juice and blood—O dulce Corazón de María, sed mi salvación. A series of tornadoes fast approaches and we're wearing bandanas around our necks and walking mongooses who are also wearing bandanas around their necks. Afterwards, Big Lots has been destroyed quite brilliantly by the hands of our hateful God, shirtless idiots appear on Channel 2 wearing bandanas around their necks recounting their own personal discounted hell, and we sit round the old radio tirelessly listening to local personalities explain the importance of boiling water. How are we supposed to boil water without electricity? the bandana wearing townspeople ask. There's a live wire dangling from my tulip tree, should I remove it with my bare hands? the bandana wearing townspeople ask. I think my daughter may be dead! cry the hysterical, bandana wearing townspeople. Well, just throw on your bandana and have yourself a barbeque, because you ain't going nowhere, the pundits respond. You can't go anywhere after this devastation even though you're already on your way to Mooresville to purchase emergency bandanas. This just in! The regional bandana supply has become dangerously low! Please, for the love of Christ, conserve your bandanas! At Christmastime we're frantically opening packages of new bandanas to put around our necks and around our mongooses' necks. Otherwise, here comes Father in his soiled bandana with a sermon denouncing the Boss himself. In summertime Dave and I take cocaine in the blood stained apartment of a stranger. The airplanes make their constant approaches, one after another, and I'm thinking about Sarah's abortion. Je vie un vrai calvaire. Somewhere right now, God is being copiously thanked. Somewhere right now, God is spinning violently in his grave. __ KANSAS On a list of all time lows, masturbating to your high school yearbook would have to rank pretty high, as would the brilliant web of lies you once composed around Veronica. In the foyer you were Dracula, but in the kitchen you were all classic Peter Brady. Green was color and not reservoir, not noise between hospitals and funerals—Peter Brady's fangs were real and whitened by an ADA approved tooth whitening system. The Bible says that one day God shall rise screaming from a pool of human blood, that one day horses will ride us. On a list of all time lows, however, fainting in your breakfast nook after inflicting a wound upon yourself would have to rank pretty high, as would Veronica's departure at 4:30 that overcast morning. The city, yellow and empty. The dogwoods blossoming, ivy crowns making a resounding comeback. Remember walking behind the cherry orchard at dusk last September? How I needed to tell you how much I loved you? (The swell of the locusts and wind, the green and yellow?) On a list of all time lows, the thing before the apology would have to rank pretty high, as would the apology, were it unforgiven. Tonight, my stomach is bleeding. I should probably check into a hospital. Veronica is in Wichita, Kansas. I am gathering my blood for her. ____ Both of these poems are from the forthcoming New Michigan Press chapbook, A Twelve Step Guide, available in early October. |