socratesandmagic

[socratesandmagic]

Thanksgiving Day Parade

Turkey, stuffing, 2 green bean casseroles. 

Take the new tires off the old car, it was mine

before it was Steph's, 

Dani's before that,

somebody else's before that. Nobody's now.

Going to scrap.

Kelly Blue Book is still 3 grand. 

Shame.

Broccoli rice casserole, Watergate salad 

Explain to Summer why it's called that. 

It feels strange in the rented house, 

Almost sprawling, shotgun style, that means

You can see the front door from the back

If no one's in the way.

No one's in the way. 

Deviled egg in my mouth, real chill in the air.

 five people don't fill up my sister's house, 

not the way holidays in my family 

used to fill up a house. 

No nieces, no nephews,

two siblings missing 

who live closer than I do 

but didn't get an invitation.

Buttered biscuits, mac and cheese,

the real middleclass kind.

 All our grandparents are dead. 

Hell all of my dad's side of the family

 could have been killed by cobalt 

used as a foaming agent 

in a batch of Budweiser 

and nobody would tell me.

 No friends either. 

It feels like we're running out of friends lately. 

We're not running out of cornbread.

There's a call to adventure, there always is

We pile into my car, go see the town. 

It feels natural, five people fill out my car,

 which used to be someone else's

and has no problem climbing the mountain

Where the cold air refracts the light

and you swear you can almost see the 6 pans

4 spoons and 2 hours used that morning

making middleclass mac and cheese.

Steph is moving, she told us today, 

six hours south, 

even further than I can see from this mountain.

It feels weird.

She tells my girlfriend how the park was built

in the thirties to give good men work.

The story is familiar.

Monster energy, clearance redbull, 

"The lighted poinsettia capital of texas"

The sign reads by the spring.

A kind of sad commendation,

even by standards of specific and sad 

small-town self-commendations.

We take pictures by the monuments.

Pumpkin Pie, eaten by hand.

Black friday is Thursday night,

40 inch televisions,

 a million moving pieces

One guy stuck in the throng

just trying to buy cat food. Probably. 

Meow mix, fancy feast. 

Back to the shotgun house, 

Which will be someone else's again soon

And they'll have to deal with the mud

that Stephanie got stuck in that evening

like the lighted poinsettia capital of Texas

didn't want her to leave the driveway. 

I dug the truck out. It felt natural. 

I hope someone will dig out the new tenants. 

Someone must have dug out the old ones. 

I haven't seem them around. 

I hope someone will dig out new tenants

that show up stuffed and cold

in driveways 6 hours south of here.

[socratesandmagic]

Allison, I think

Allison, I think agriculture was a mistake 

But we got some perks.

The Beatles.

The extended release painkiller. 

The 1980 Chevy C10 pickup.

Allison,I really like the Beatles.

But nobody likes anything the way that people 

who really really like the Beatles 

like the Beatles.

Allison, i think we need code words 

in case the phone line gets tapped.

Or one of us is being held hostage.

Allison, let's be honest, in case

 I get held hostage.

Allison, I miss my mother, but I never call her.

You always call yours,

 and you talk like her when you do.

Allison, I think the dog could take God in a fight.

A fair fight, at least.

Allison, you came to my home,

heard the talk of my people, 

sat in the glow of the natural gas flares

and smelled the hydrogen sulphide 

pouring over the endless horizon.

Allison, I feel like I owe you the world.

Allison, people keep telling me stories

about me that I don't remember. 

Allison, I've got gaps in my memory 

you could drive a 1980 Chevy c10 through 

and I don't know why.

I only ever did the freshman drugs.

Allison, I've been thinking 

about switching to decaf.

Allison, I could forgive you for anything

and I'm still mad about stuff

my 6th grade teacher did. 

Allison, I'm still mad about Sacco and Venzetti 

and you would be too if you knew the story

and I'm not just saying that because I want

to tell you the story I just feel

it's my responsibility to let you know,

one leftist to another.

Allison, would you be mad if I got a gold tooth?

It would look great

and trade easy for snacks in prison.

Allison, every morning I wake up

surprised you haven't filled a pillowcase 

with stuffed animals and vegan cookies, 

kissed the dog on the head and absconded 

into the shelter of western night. 

Allison, I'm writing you a poem 

and it uses your name a lot.

Allison, I thought about changing it, 

giving you a fake name

 but I couldn't stand the sound.

Allison, if I had the time I'd go back through

a million poems and change the fake names

to yours.

Allison,

would you be mad if i got the dog a gold tooth?

[socratesandmagic]

If anyone knows what happened to the poet Lucy With An Umlaut or Lucille Falk please let me know. I loved their poetry and wish I could find it again. If they aren't posting anymore but any of you happen to be in contact with them please send my best wishes.

[socratesandmagic]

Daylight Saving Blues

That Summer? I can’t remember 

I think I lost my mind.

That Summer

I could have gone anywhere 

but didn’t.

Whatever doesn't drift

must somehow be anchored.

That Autumn made pain into fatigue.

This Autumn made fatigue into violence. 

Dull moonlight filtering through Venetian blinds

like blood from a scrape.

There's a hostility to Autumn here.

330 AM. Years later. Witching hour. 

I'll wait patiently here for the sun

if he shows at all tomorrow. 

A New Summer will come

 drug by a great beast of awful burden

prodded along with hard dry fingers.

But not yet. Not soon.

Me, I feel like a rabbit. I feel like prey. 

I feel the cold wind, wet and cruel

even now 

warm in our little rented house. 

I feel a ghost of That Summer 

stirring out in the yellow grass. 

[socratesandmagic]

Momma wouldn't let me be a cowboy.

I still dream of my house in the desert 

just on the edges of what God can see.

I wake like a diesel on a cold morning,

slow and jerky and just on the verge 

of losing power for the first few miles,

You're outside the bedroom door

doing something, always something.

Wielding a hair wand like a mason's trowel,

maybe,

all practiced, efficient.

Teaching the dog the finer points 

of applied optical science.

Maybe not.

Out the door by 9:10 at the latest,

reduced my commute to a science.

Feel a young father's pride 

when my truck starts learning new words

to squeal or clunk at me swinging corners.

In the door 5 minutes late.

It's not an exact science.

Give myself to the world

Knuckle by knuckle,

Drop by drop.

A little to the butcher

A little to the baker

A little to the drowned phoenician sailor

(with pearls that were his eyes)

Save as much as I can for you.

[socratesandmagic]

I didn't sell out

the punk rock ethics

I learned 30 years too late

from Fugazi myths.

.

I still want a god who fucks mountains.

.

skeptical eyes, sensible shoes,

ulcers

in the parts of me I always thought

I could just fill up later,

I still miss every friend I've ever had.

.

I still want to be a Poet.

a Pilgrim in a holy place.

[socratesandmagic]

Phoenician Blues

an ice storm at the dynamite party:

you cut a striking figure

all petals and stems

in your pedal pushers,

fortified wine on your breath

watching me in stockingfeet

skiing aluminum hills

leaving dents where I fell.

but all

I can do

is play

my part.

Wake in the night

drink 12 ounces beetroot juice.

love the nitrates.

maybe in the morning feel

like a totally different make and model

than the person who fell asleep

yesterday in those same clothes.

[socratesandmagic]

All of Monahans

I realize I'm going to lose the fight,

every day, not always the same time.

every day, always feeling

the same sad revelation

the same begrudging understanding

like I'm realizing it for the first time.

.

That moment

that sad revelation,

turns into a grain of sand and

falls into the world of red sand grains,

somewhere west by northwest of here

where you sink to your ankles,

sweat blood,

pray for asphalt.

...

When you're like 11 or something

you might try to turn the shower to hot

and upon checking it with your hands

your nerves send signals that

must I'm sure look like question marks

straight to your brain and for a second

it's either so cold it's hot

or so hot it's cold.

that's how the notification I should have

swiped away a few minutes ago feels

pushing into the side of my leg.

Bouncing over potholes.

...

Take West Murphy to Penwell.

look at buildings that used to be businesses

and now aren't anything at all.

I had hoped by this time of day

the sun would have come out

and everything would stop

feeling so much like a dream.

.

Take the FM 1601 crossover to I 20.

.

"A long drive for someone

with nothing to think about"

.

I had this reoccuring daydream

of suburban life, standing in a kitchen

with copper bottom cookware

hung from one of those pot chandeliers,

shouting at some vague future partner

that I don't like Modest Mouse,

I just don't

and I'm sorry

and I should have said something sooner.

.

I guess the meaning of that parable

even if I didn't know it at the time

is that I don't know what's good for me.

...

Schrodingers message still sits there.

Either hot or cold, anything I want it to be

until I open it.

I'm not too proud to admit

that I don't really understand the cat thing,

the box, poison, quantum stuff.

I don't think most people

who think they understand it actually do.

...

I know now

that I do like covers of Modest Mouse.

I still don't know

what I don't like about them

I know now

that copper bottom cookware really is

an effecient way to distribute heat.

I still don't know

why it seemed so offensive.

...

I 20 to highway 18, somewhere

much closer to my imaginary sand

I finally open the message

and I know now

it's a freezing cold,

dead cat in the box.

...

...

I still don't know what's good for me.

[socratesandmagic]

Build Yourself That Ark

build yourself that ark

and hold tight to the small hope

that one day the past will be washed away

and all that will left will be people

in fertile new plains of abundance

following only the warmest hearts

as bright and anchored as the North star.

[socratesandmagic]

the North Park Blues

if I knew the magic words

to save my mother

and spare my sister's

they would spill from me

like boxes from a Penske

that's seen too many dirty roads.

.

but I only know the rituals

and so I take these Penskes

down whatever dirt road

leads to new magic.

.

I know I've wandered

and not traveled, trekked,

or gone adventuring.

Wandered. Not lost.

You can't be lost

if you've got no place to be.

.

I know whatever river

I cross I won't cross twice

but

I know whatever river

I stay in

will toss me

into it's own sort of smooth stone.

.

If I knew

I would find the promised land here

beside you

in the shadow of mountains

that stare back at me

I would have ran until I bled.

.

I know the story of the figs,

please don't tell me

about Sylvia Plath's goddamn figs.

.

My figs get crushed

under the tires

of these Penskes

because the rituals I know

only work where I've wandered.

[socratesandmagic]

Penske's in Bloom

passenger seat floorboard

filled to capacity with fast-food wrappers

empty water bottles, Monster cans,

empty cigarette packs, eyes also empty

and yellowing with rot so visible

that if astronauts had vultures

they would be reentering the atmosphere

to eat the skin falling of my bones

and while we're on the subject of bones

I'm starting to regret

having stolen my current set

from the dumpster

out behind the nursing home

without even a single conciliatory Geritol.

.

Okay so dig it:

if the wages of sin is death

the wages of wanting desperately

to place your hometown in the rearview

is to find it in the rearview,

in the flat side mirror, in the fisheye mirrors

and staring you down in the windshield

as you pass pillars turned ruins

and places you once bet a life on that are

now hangover factories on each corner

and you just keep driving

until the spirit and flesh

are both a touch of unwilling and unable

and hope that come cold Autumn morning

you'll find your conciliatory aspirin

and bottle of Aquafina.

[socratesandmagic]

By The Rivers of Babylon...

By the Rivers of Babylon

(and San Bernardino

    (a Psalm))

.

.

if I forget thee, Big Bear,

let me forget my left hand

(which you held

   walking through downtown

    (full of warm blood and painless))

.

if I forget thee, Big Bear,

let me forget my right arm

(that tangled up with yours

   on the bus ride down the mountain

     (and the terrifying taxi trip up it))

.

let me forget my lips

(that touched yours

   in valley towns and mountains

     (and now have found their purpose))

.

let me forget my legs

(that brought me

    next to you in the cabin

      (and refused to leave that spot.))

.

let me forget my heart

(that beat next to yours

    under trees grown to heaven

      (too briefly))

.

if I do not remember thee, Big Bear

let my tongue

  (that sang to you

     as you did your hair by the kitchen

       (and will sing to you again)

stick to the roof of my mouth

and sing no more forever.

[socratesandmagic]

My Only

if rainstorms

wash us of our sins

and give life to crops

and thirsty young men,

you are a rainstorm.

*

if moonlight

guides night travellers

and turns those young men

into crazed animal caricatures,

you are my moonlight.

*

if the sea

is vast and wonderful

and invites young men

to go find new lands and loves,

you are my sea

*

if sunshine

gives us warmth and

makes flowers spread

as easy as it does smiles,

you are my sunshine

***

[socratesandmagic]

Blythe California

when a single tear escapes

the outside corner of my right eye

as I stare at the high ceiling

and makes its lurching trip

over my orbital and down

ear-ward, carving it's riverbed,

she wipes it away carefully.

*

But a single tear is hardly ever

truly single but more often

the vanguard of an oncoming flood

and so she wipes the second

and third in short order and then

the fourth, fifth, innumerable others

until her hand moves at fever pace

in a fury, a mania, because she knows

that when a single renegade drop

hits the pillow

I'll really be leaving.

[socratesandmagic]

July 14th

my mother was a bookkeeper

and a damn good one.

Practical, protestant,

a black and white stick figure dreamer,

a fiend for questions

with a single wholly correct answer.

*

my father was a roofer

and a damn good one.

But he should have been an artist.

anybody will tell you that.

*

It's now July 14th.

one week, on the dot,

before I turn 21.

one week, on the dot,

before my father should be turning 49.

two weeks, give or take,

before his heart exploded.

*

My sister is a Teamster.

and a damn good one.

But she should have been a singer.

Everyone tells her that.

*

it's now July 14th

three weeks, on the dot,

before my sister's wedding

where I'll be giving her away.

*

its now July 14th

I'm on a greyhound bus

seeing America right

headed west to meet a girl I love.

*

If I keep my mind's eye on that I feel

pretty damn alright.

*

but it wanders.

*

My dad's best friend was Dave Fallon.

Dave bought a boat.

Pop bought a boat.

Dave bought a dually pick up.

Pop bought a dually pick up.

Dave bought a motorcycle

and died in a road accident.

*

I never met Dave Fallon.

*

My father took a greyhound North

a year before his last July 14th

to meet his brother for work.

My sister, the non Teamster one,

took him to the station.

*

Maybe he took one Up

after his last July 14th

to meet Dave Fallon.

*

My mother was a bookkeeper

and a damn good one.

But now she's disabled,

unrelated to the bookkeeping.

She's found a new wholly correct answer

taking care of her dogs

and third husband

who is a mechanic

and a damn good one

and does right by her.

*

She tells everyone that.

*

It's now July 14th

and I have made it to nearly 21

and no nearly 21 year old

is damn good at anythjng

*

21 July 14ths from now

I will be older than my father ever was

and as a good a fill in the blank

as he was a builder

and I'll be far older

than Dave Fallon

and none of my friends

will have to tell their kids about me

as though I'm an uncle in absentia.

*

its now July 14th

*

[socratesandmagic]

Hail Mary

Nights like these

we used to drink

like we'd never heard of a hangover

and then until we'd actually

forgot the word hangover

but now in sureheadedness

drive empty moonless nightroads

swapping conspiracy rants

and what only count as secrets

because we hadn't yet admitted

that we had already in our minds

found out the odd man.

Nights like these

we pretend not to feel wistful

because feeling wistful in the rain

is a cliche we wont indulge

but our 4 eyed monocular

is like watching a kaleidoscope

through a kaleidoscope

until the fractals are just noise

and the noise becomes the signal.

and the noise-cum-signal

is on odd feeling

that might from a sufficient distance

and with an insuffiently clear lense

look a lot like being wistful.

[socratesandmagic]

Bed Wetters of the Near West

You may find yourself in safety shoes in a land where nobody's actions have any consequences, you may find yourself studying the pleasant eyed unthusiasm of a man who's stolen from every gas station he's ever entered and when the dealer pulls up in the driveway they open the door excited like pizza rolls and you may find yourself burning through serotonin like a lush in Monaco and accept in exchange for this glorious day the lord has given that you will never see Monaco. you may find serious salves for your serious wounds and write what you need the world to know in bioluminescent algae near the Pacific Garbage Patch and dare any capitalist moonmen to take his idle swipes at your class consciousness. Our sunbaked youth on its pyre you may find ancient images of yourself writhing in pseudo-tetanus-spasms with death rattles like a thrown rod in an 84 Pontiac 6000, cherry red. You may disappear into mediocrity in San Antonio, Texas. One summer night you may find your headlights pointed at the highway and you may find that 85 feels good and 90 feels better and now 110 is exhilarating and holy shit are those sirens those can't be sirens oh my God fuck what am I going to- by the time a fully loaded pig hits 120 you may find yourself past the horizon. you may find every different love with one person like a wheel rolling through different colored muds. A wheel unwashed you may be surprised to find love is less a battlefield and more a siege. You may find out that everything you know is fundamentally wrong. You may find that out twice. And possibly a third time. You may find yourself almost universally hated defining the universe as your friends and family and hated as "emotionally exhausted with your antics" and you may rebuild with them any trust in your character over weeks and months or you may bounce back and forth between the Devil and Alpine Texas wondering why the ropes you gnaw on  won't repair themselves and you may find yourself wishing your younger self hadn't had the kind of problems  that they could run from.