Forty-Seventh Entry

SO, The Dick Pigs have updated since their killer launch party. They will also be squealing at the Frequency Series on March 4th, I'll repost that when it gets a lil closer.

It is well known that I hate all forms of life, hu-mans in particular. But I will be braving you horrible scum to do next week's EARSHOT reading. I'll give you more info about that later as well.

I'm in a foul and curmudgeonly mood. It seems as if I am a grump.

Here's my poem:

1998, YEAR ONE:

"Call me Joseph, dad," was my favorite
nonsense phrase that year, I would slide those fingers
through my longish hair and look down with forgiveness
on my chemistry book, or sit alone, fiddling
amicably with my empty teacup. Wind would fly
through my face when I walked outside, faces
looking at me in the abstract, clinging to myself in wrapped flannel.

From all this I was able to create an interesting lie:
February was the month I said my parents died, among the yellow
flowers, I would look at the stranger across the table humorlessly,
falsely accusing him with my eyes. When I wasn't lying,
Fridays I would walk or run White Rock Lake, 12 miles
flinging my hands loosely in the air, like a dead man
follows the light, out of obligation, out of a practiced fear.

Fast and amorous and deceitful was how I felt.
For no reason I would kiss a girl, and for no reason I would fight,
fists pumping the air, yanking drastically at my friend,
fraying his collar because he wouldn't talk to me that fall.
Forgetting why I started this experiment, in my hand I found
fractured pieces of my teacup, and looked around for my father,
frantically trying to think of things that I have now forgotten.