If you haven't, you should go and buy the tiny, a nifty little journal some friends of mine put together. Where can I find this magazine you ask? Well, ask no further you annoying jerk. http://thetinyjournal.com/
It's hot and I'm poor, just to update you on my life.
Here's my poem:
THE BASEBALL FURIES DROPPED THE BALL, MADE AN ERROR
our friends are on second base and heading for home
and all you can do is cling to the fence with both hands
and snap your bubbles of big league chew.
What horrible gang members we’ve become
we no longer are able to rumble, our ballet lessons
have faded and winked from memory
like a girl I fell in love with on the El
who I never spoke to, and she was all the way
across the car, and she waved goodbye to me at her stop.
I’m tearing the patches off of our jackets
and sewing the sleeves back on
and doing some needlepoint in my spare time when the kids are asleep
coiled in their simple dreams like happy vipers.
Dreams like their eternally incomplete lego castles,
They give the illusion of shape, the impression of civilized structure.
Look around us: our turf has crumbled to quiet ash.
Yet upstairs in the kitchen my wife is dropping the skillet
and whatever she was cooking will slide under the oven into the dark.
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4 comments:
Rock the hell on, Matt. "Curled in their sleep like happy vipers" packs quite a kick.
Oh, that comment was from me, by the way.
By the by, was I on the El with you that day? I think this rings a bell.
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