by Kevin Army
vicodin and joe henderson,
the calming sound of traffic driving past
in the middle of the night.
the parking lot across the street, the
car alarms i sing along with.
that moon, that smell of
night. of my apartment.
old wood, distressed and
beautiful. the
man i held last friday,
here,
where
life is a lucky thing, bountiful among the
drugs and flowers, the
perfect vision of my poor sorry state.
merlot, diet coke and
sitting on the steps, waiting for
things to get better, as
if they could. these
ruined verses of
poetry unpronounced, these
hands reaching in
so many directions.
our broken political systems and
the dreck on tv, both notwithstanding,
and even though i'm down with fever and chills,
this moment is pretty fucking glorious,
just within itself,
in all our fine mess.
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First published on my Deep Fried Rat blog a couple weeks ago.
You should stick in a reference to Laurel and Hardy.
This is fine writing. I would, if it were my poem (and it's not) have placed a break between "so many directions" and the following line. My favorite part is "merlot, diet coke and sitting on the steps, waiting for things to get better, if they could." That alone is terrific. Even just that.
It is a fine mess...*
sitting on the steps, waiting for
things to get better,
all we can hope for
I like this. Maybe the trick to fending off despair is to find at least one moment that's "pretty fucking glorious." *
Samuel- Not a L&H fan here, but thanks for stopping by. Big hug!
Meg- Thanks for your kind words, and you know, that suggestion makes sense to me, I'm going to sit with that idea for a day or so, but I think I will eventually stop being my stubborn self and put that break in.
Gary, Linda- Thanks!
Matthew- Thank you. Those moments do help.
"in all our fine mess"
Yes. Exactly!