Tuesday, April 30, 2019

Baby One More Time

I don’t know what it was
But the first time I heard it
I was like--

Oh yeah
This is it
This is my thing

And I had never really
Been into any particular kind of music
Before that

I mean, I listened to music
But I wasn’t very into, like,
My band or singer or another

But then the first part of that song
Started to play
And right off the bat I was like--

She found me

Britney found me

And I don’t expect anybody
To understand it

Even I don’t understand it
But, like, I just know
In my heart
That everything good in my life
Is the direct result
Of me hearing
‘Baby One More Time’

You know, I took an art history course
When I was in college
Because I thought maybe
That was something I would like
And it turns out I did
And then art history became my major
And everybody was like--

You’ll never make any money doing that

Because art history is, like,
The major you name
When you want to give an example
Of a worthless degree, right?

Except I make boatloads
Of fucking money
So suck on that, assholes

But I was in art history class
And the professor was talking about
Stendhal’s syndrome
And right away
I knew that’s what happened
When I heard that song
For the first time

Dizziness
Rapid heartbeat
Hallucinations

An intense reaction
To a piece of art

That was me
That was me with that song

Britney Jean Spears reached into me
And adjusted
Who I was

Set me on a course
A path
That I, otherwise,
Would not have been on

Because all of a sudden
It was like--

Like I had been this shy
Quiet girl
From Louisville
Who thought, like,
Of the world in a certain way

And then I heard ‘Oh baby, baby’
And it was like--

Bitch, it can be
Any
Way
You want it to be

Your life
Your love life
Where you go to school
Who you’re friends with
Anything

Here’s a girl
Singing to a boy
Being like--

Bring it

You know what I mean?

Like not--

Aw, take me to the dance

Like--

Fuck me up, Fuqboi

And that was like--

Wow

That blew my mind

Just knocked me out
Knocked me for a loop

It’s like--

Here’s this teenage girl
The first one
I can ever remember

Looking at the world
Not just a boy, really
It was about so much more
Than just a boy

Looking at the world
And saying--

Hand it over

I just don’t know
How anybody was the same
After that

Monday, April 29, 2019

Love in a Pinter Play

He’s saying something
Vague about fish and chips

It feels like rain
But it probably won’t

There’s a suggestion made
About where we should holiday

The suggestion is batted away
But with nuance

With barely a raised eyebrow

A newspaper is read
A couch is sat on
A throat is cleared

Then nothing happens
For three or four minutes

Have you ever really taken the time
To notice how long
Three or four minutes is?

It is…

An unbearable amount of time
When filled with nothing
But silence

And truly
It is an art
A true art
To fill something
With silence

And, like any art,
While many may practice it
So few are adept

The lights are dim
The furniture is white
Or old
Tattered
Indicative of Britain
Post-war

Brandy
Sherry
Gin

All consumed
Or ready to be consumed

We stare out windows
We stare ahead
We stare at each other

Two minutes
Four
Six
Depending on the director
And what college
He graduated from

While all this transpires
Some of us
Find love

In between the creaky floorboards
And the peeling wallpaper

The chipped mugs
The tin can suppers
The ripped aprons

The seaside nobody can enjoy
Because it’s filled
With nefarious seagulls
And suggested adultery

Somehow
Even in this desolation
We find an affection for each other

The way sometimes
Even with all the ways there are
To entertain yourself

Nothing quite beats
A bad movie
On a Sunday afternoon

Here, in the pauses
And the breaks
And the stormy silences

We find a soft voice
A careful word
A well-placed indication
That even beneath
Our scattered British accents
There is a lilt

An affection

I say my line
You say yours
We wait
We wait a minute
We wait two minutes

The sound of a clock ticking
That’s been created from nothing
Since there is no clock onstage
Let alone one that ticks

I think about smiling
But I don’t smile

You raise an eyebrow
You mention something
About a murdered woman
Or the man downstairs

There’s a grumble to your tone
But beyond that
There’s just something to say
When you don’t know what to say

And whatever comes after it
Or doesn’t

Either because it doesn’t need to
Or because there’s nothing
All that important

To say

Famous Last Words

As I lay in the battlefield
Surrounded by my compatriots
I compare a final evening
To one in the middle

A complicated one
Not simple
Wherein I was tasked
With cooking for a family of six
That was staying with me

They had been displaced
By the war
And the mother and father
Were too shaken up
To make their children a meal
So I offered to step into the kitchen
And whip something up
In the name of compassion

Hours later
The sons and daughters were asleep
And the parents and I
Shared stories
About how things were
Before everything
Stopped and started
All at once

Funny how that memory--

Of a big meal
In a little house

--Would be the one to pop into my head

Two dead men
Were holding hands
On top of me

The battle was ongoing
But you could feel the heat of it
Slowly dissipating

Everything loses its passion eventually
Even warfare

From where I am
The buckshot night
Would look almost romantic
If it weren’t for death
Resting upon my chest

It’s common for a soldier
To soothe themselves
With thoughts
Of what comes after

After the battle
After the war
After the hospital stay
And the physical rehabilitation
And the decoration ceremonies

A return home
A train ride
Sometimes a medal
Sometimes a few

Then quiet
Calm and quiet
Laying in a field
That isn’t beset by aggression

Maybe a sweetheart
Calls your name

Wouldn’t it be nice?

And though you’re not famous
It seems as though
There’s a kind opportunity
To have famous last words

A man nearby may hear you
Your parting shot
And relate your witticism
Or wise philosophy
To soldiers and citizens
For centuries to come

Death brings with it
A sort of eternal know-how
Doesn’t it?

Don’t you feel esteemed
As you lay amidst the chaos?

What’s on your mind?
What are you thinking?
What have you to say?

...And nothing

Nothing comes to you

Just the smell of a chop
And six little mouths
Happily chomping away
At the food
You prepared for them
All those years ago

Years later
You’d run into one of them
Grown now
And you’d learn
That of the six
Only the one standing in front of you
Was still alive

War
Sickness
And bad luck
Had taken the lot of them

Their parents had watched
Each of them go
Then died of custodial grief

The one survivor
Was only one part of a person
Selling apples to stay alive
To passing soldiers
Like yourself

You open your mouth
To see what will arrive
In the form of last words

But all that’s there
Is breath

A single breath

And nothing
Underneath it

Nothing to take with you

As you go