Basset boredom, long ears pinned
back, voice whining, constant lament
able to melt everyone. Houndy
smell, feet akimbo, absolute
happiness simply because you
came home. I insist to you that
these animals are regal, have
charm and vitality and above
all, a capacity to snuggle seldom
seen. And yet you say, “Well,
I’m more of a cat person.”
I don’t pull up and shit
on your lawn, do I?
What do you do when you’re someone who loves to dance, just absolutely loves to dance, but there’s no one who plays what you dance to? Give me a 90’s night, with a bit of Brit Brit and the better Black Eyed Peas songs (no apologies, “Boom Boom Pow” is amazing, I am not joking), give me a bunch of people who know the words to “Rump Shaker” and “Motownphilly” and “Poison” with some drinks and not quite enough capacity in the room. So maybe I am saying “give me people who grew up exactly the way I grew up” so maybe I am saying “a bunch of white people who grew up in a small town” and maybe “thirty year olds holllaaaaaaa!” and maybe saying “also people who should never say ‘holla’” but really. GIVE ME THIS. Surely even Holocene can get this right?
Unease. Carol waits for that to pass. She waits for a lot of things. She considers. Carol contemplates Christ-like chrysanthemums. Creationism creates a cacophony of questions for Carol, but those questions carry no weight. Curious? She knows what she saw the time that she saw God. She knows Him should be capitalized, capsizing as the miracle was. Quick! Carol says. You can’t cooperate? Then at least come here. At least hold on. At least we can try to weigh the possibilities. At least we can see the goodness in you, Carol says. Can you see it, too?
I’m tired of thinking
sometimes. All of this needing decisions
and working with other people
I sort of wish that I could shut it
off but I’m never suicidal and don’t do drugs.
Maybe that’s why I like music and dancing.
“El Caminos in the West,” you always sneak up on me. I forget how much joy you bring me! I forget how much you’re seriously the dope shit. I forget that you are one of those songs that uses some sort of xylophone to Great Effect. I feel like you sound like California and maybe The Dude. I love that you Use “Doo” as a Word, Liberally. I do not like that you are followed by “Yeah is What We Had,” cuz that’s like, a bummer, man. But for the time when you are occupying my earballs, I have to say that you make me sway in time, mentally, and for that I must thank you, heartily.
Side note: in the comments for this video, one of the girls who is IN IT comments! Kids, sometimes? Totally cool.
I feel this music. I feel it in a way that maybe one of my west coast woo woo friends would describe as it vibrating the same as me, or something equally hokey-hippie to a midwestern kid who’s now an Oregonian adult. It’s like being in love in that your brain and body just *get it*, and that’s it. The bass and drums of “Face of the Earth” hit every single rhythmic everything that my brain and heart need out of a prophet. And can you hear “it’s not like we were married/it was three or four months,” without knowing, to your bones, that that’s not what he means at all? The best poets redirect your thoughts to realizing that what they say and what they intend are not at all the same things. The Dismemberment Plan owns the ability to create an entire entity, all the emotion and chaos and thoughts and confusion of being people. It’s no wonder that I love them so dearly.
I wonder if John Tesh has the NBA on NBC music (that he wrote) as his ringtone. I wonder (and hope) that NBC regrets not keeping the NBA contract. I wonder if anyone else misses Marv and Mike Fratello calling all the important games (I guess they are on TNT now? I don’t have cable). I wonder if there are many prose poems being written by people who want to finish up so they can watch the Bulls game. I wonder how many poetry fans know what it’s like to type something while your basset hound is incessantly whining. I wonder if the sound of typing will ever be something that we look back on and say, hey, I remember when you had to type in order to write.
If you decide that you are going to an all weekend comedy festival, remember to wear shoes, carry your phone in your belt loops, and breathe. These things are so important to maximum enjoyment.
No no, that’s not right
She said. I know that
Song was from the 90’s
And I know I lost my virginity
(Mix-tape-
Making wise)
Around that time.
That’s all fine and good, I
Thought. Except there’s
No way she included
“Whoomp (There it Is)”
On a mix tape that
is dated 1992. And there’s
No way to correct her
Either; no way to tell
Her she’s wrong, because
I love her. And she’s
Beautiful, even when she’s
Breaking my heart along
With my
Records
She finally broke me when she said she hated snow. What kinda person hates snow? I’d even be a tiny bit offended if she said she hated Snow, but snow? I spent 27 years in Illinois, some of those years spent in a place where I delivered newspapers in -30 degree temps, but snow still feels like life falling on top of me, like the frigid world is telling me, “hey, this is actually pretty cool right now, check it out. This would be rain but instead it’s this beautiful illuminated crystal reminder of life.” So to hate that—to hate that—is incomprehensible to me. Not only that, I’m actually offended. A person who hates snow can’t help but hate their life, and that’s when I knew it was time to leave.
