7/30: Father John Misty Kills Me In My Sleep

If it was the maintenance guy
                    you'd think I'd recognize his voice
even stirred from sleep, the
soft blankets in the wash the
                     scratchy ones I keep because memories
waking me up when sirens
                      or neighbors fucking don't.

In the A.M. I listened to
Father John Misty
play the same two chords
over roughly the same beat
expressing largely the same
sentiment
                    (but putting forward different evidence)

and I had to agree
that it was brilliant.

                    At least, at four a.m. -- when will I
drop back off? five a.m now

shouts down the

hall, around the corner, I'm guessing, I've gotten

good at the guessing

but this one sounds more dangerous

and my window is not an escape

window, so if this is a rampage, this is how I go,

naked under scratchy

blankets, a folk singer roughly

my age

mocking me for living.

Eh well. The slow click of a vacuum.

Those maintenance guys really don't sleep, do they?

Safety

                             unless horror rules apply, in which

the vacuum

is also

                              the weapon.

Once you're in the halls, there's

a variety of stairwells, but if

a killer bursts into your studio

you're fucked.

6/30: 40th and Edgeward

if not for the steel and railings
would all those cars just swerve
into Lake Union on the rainy days?

the slush of wipers, daily driving
like the treadmill pull of car wash
visuals on hold, panic, take the wheel.

if not for the high barrier spikes
Aurora would still hold suicide capital,
with it's long, cold drop,

and high walkability score. if you
want to plummet off I-5, you'd
need to steer into the void, end up

crunched in concrete. some could
try it. those cross-country trucks,
those eighteen wheelers, every

time they roll pass, a low quake
in this house beneath the bridge,
the angle not quite sharp enough

to quell windstorm thoughts of
getting crushed beneath freight as I
lay in bed rainwatching,

the trucks that break through freeway barriers
to plummet, spinning, and cave this roof
and end this speculation.

5/30: Broken Boards

As cloth, as thread, as mothfood
folded in a mother's closet, the white
tae kwon do uniform and a year's procession
of belts,
white
         yellow
                   green
                           brown.

a paper-route, as income, as check, as responsibilits,
short of another year's tuition. one photo, as proof, as marker,
of the tail end of puberty, the awkward lip-open gape
and curls parted down the middle. It was just one
year, the last one for years, I ever got in a fight.

It was at church camp, with a much bigger camper, a football
player, I hit him over the head with a broom and a counselor
broke it up. As resolution, handshakes by campfire.

As time went, it  dawned it was a fight I
would have lost, but continued anyway. As
middle school honor dictates, as fear and bravado
lead in equal measure, as I'd not yet learned to
joke my way out of things.

Fight or flight never leaves,
just takes different paths.

As memento, as reminder of my own fists,
of splinters I never caught, of the black belt
I was a month and a tournament away
from, two halves of a board,
tucked with keepsakes, marked with
sharpie, in thirteen year old
handwriting.

4/30: Orange Cascades

“In such an iconoclastic city, even the fine dining is

                Punk Rock.”

Diner rankings for the uninitiated,

                Splash dashed across
Pages, clickable meanings.

                An incisive piece of

Journalism on why we’ve yet to overtake

                Paris when it comes to omelettes.

                When I went on the “date” with the chef

From Michigan who was happy that Seattle was

                Finally Coming Up, I for a moment

Pictured myself in 24 hour sport coats, cutting small portions

                Into tiny ones, with a variety of serrated

Blades, laughing conversations about lesser airports

                of the world, all thick framed glasses and

the server’s white button down rolled up to

                Reveal their Black Flag tattoo and

Hip hop instrumentals swirling over every $200 plate.

               

The dueling concept of what food even means: “Has the art gone out of
Farm to table dining? Three top chefs chat about the dumbing down
Of artisan culture.”

“Five spots for lunch under $10.”

"Three cans of beans for a dollar-- coupon inside."

We went  on another date, and one aborted attempt at late night

                Paths crossing, her in her chef’s uniform,

I think our buses literally passed eachother. When she talked about

                Her plans for clams, I thought about the

Orange Soda in my fridge, and even brought it up. “What, you got it like a

                Joke? So inside. So Seattle.” Sure, I guess.

I was confused. She held her fork like an heiress.

              But on her profile all it said was Porn, Punk, and Pizza.

3/30: Everything Hurts For Good Work

Swing that hammer. Climb that tree. Get to that clubhouse. Break that back and selfie the bandages. So many tongues, so few hands. Clouds part to reveal more, darker clouds. A rain that insists on waiting while the garden dries.

There are so many logs and not enough arms to lift. Tie those shoes, laces for tennis, applied to loose boots in the mud.  Tether your throat to the dust in the air, the dust in the air becomes the mud in your shoes. As dilligence goes, this wasn’t due.

These lines even, dashed off like they are, wouldn’t meet criteria. Those flimsy walls you’re throwing up, that half-cooked patty, served up, that warm lager. So many starving, cold people, so many people starving cold people, a listening party for the full collapse. Fix the hair. Fix the nails. Fix the shoes.

Swing that hammer. Tie that knot. Get up that last flight of stairs. Wear out those knees and wonder who, what you have to show.

2/30: All Hail the Brilliant Comedian!

It was first rumored

in whispers, in

a youtube clip, of them eating

soup from a can, sitting on

a couch in an apartment.

The brilliant comedian

would return.

All hail  the brilliant comedian!

The brilliant comedian has been

gone too long, In the time before

The brilliant comedian told it like it was,

per haps now, they could tell it like it

                        Is.

The brilliant comedian is the first to admit
That the brilliant comedian isn’t always

Brilliant,

        And doesn’t really like the term “comedian.”

But does come from a proud tradition of Brilliant Comedians
Who tell, or have told, it like it is,  or was, or would eventually be.

The brilliant comedian slyly shuts down

Hecklers and holds the microphone like a magic

Wand. the brilliant comedian knows the exact

Height of mount everest and the mileage of

The great barrier reef, appropos to

Nothing.

The brilliant comedian is not perfect, they assure

You, and a tale of collegiate malfeasance emerges.

The brilliant comedian just moved to L.A. and L.A.

Is weird, they’re more used to
New York, but spent summers at their

Uncle’s place in Dayton, so they are a regular American

At heart. The brilliant comedian is just like you

                                                                                            Or me.

The brilliant comedian starts and ends their story

At the same yet opposite place,

You feel your mind blowing.

The brilliant comedian is glad there was no

Twitter in the ‘90s, because HOOO BOY.

The brilliant comedian skewers BOTH sides

Of the aisle, spent two whole specials mocking

The right and the left as craven idiot fart-liars and was flabbergasted

That the US elected Donald Trump.

The brilliant comedian addresses racism

By talking about the time they dated a Black Guy

And their ex got so jealous, by mocking rednecks

And adopting an exaggerated southern accent.

The brilliant comedian addresses homophobia

By saying that the idea of a God is stupid, have you

Seen traffic in this town? What God would allow that?

By mocking rednecks and adopting an exaggerated

Southern accent. The brilliant comedian is going to wait

A year or two more on the “trans thing”

After all, they wouldn’t want to have to change their jokes.

The brilliant comedian does not hate women, how could

You say that? Have you not heard their bit about eating pussy?

The brilliant comedian once or twice has said Terrible Things
In order to make a point, to a rapt and attentive audience

So now those Terrible Things are okay to say anywhere, to anyone
At any time, for any reason, even-- especially-- to strangers.  
It is hard to forgive the Brilliant Comedian for this.

But.
The brilliant comedian IS brilliant, phrases that were references
To their routines are now just part of language, ways of thinking
About complexities into everyday talk, and when you were
Counting the packets of ramen in the glorified flop house

Two hours from your part time job, the brilliant comedian’s

Wide eyed cynicism helped keep you tough, helped you think that

Maybe all the divvied up oatmeal and bad gut from frozen

Pizzas and poverty and struggle-- even at your age-- might not be a waste

And when you were heartbroken and ugly and no one

Loved you, the brilliant comedian

                    Made you laugh.

Which is why you still need the brilliant comedian,

And resent that they refuse to keep growing, or that
Their wounded hope has turned to casual callous.

The brilliant comedian may or may not justify
Your love, eventually, again, or not, either way

They’ll get a mountain for their memoirs,

After all, they’re brilliant.

1/30: April First Death Dodger Roulette

911 phone lines
jammed for the
pranksters with the
alien invasions
and escaped zoo
animals running rampage
at the preschool.

Pray the bizarre tragic never
finds you on this calendar day.
Pray the demons in the back of
your grey stuff don't ooze their way
forward on this calendar day.
Pray that nuclear monsters don't
rise from the ocean, roaring
and thrashing, on this day,
with the Coast Guard on high alert
for pranks and faked
footage.

Don't waste your sympathy.
Keep your empathy sealed in Tupperware.
Don't believe everything you read
on the internet.

"Please, this is serious. My friend is crushed under an overturned
popcorn truck. Kernels are everywhere, and there's a terrible
loss of blood. Send help as soon as you can! This isn't a joke,
we don't have much time left."