Wednesday, February 24, 2010

She Screamed (For Nicole)

She screamed.
But you didn't scream.
You were real quiet the whole time.
She was so awake, so up on it all.
So into crushing the things into smaller things and setting the things on fire.
So into riding the things as high as they'll go and laughing higher.
So awake. So up on it all.
She took something to help her sleep.
She wasn't feeling well, surrounded by all that blood and curiosity.

And that's where you came in with your not-screaming and your silence and your hands on all the doors. And your feet so firmly on the ground, like you'd never learn how to jump.
I'd consider making some joke about how a month is the longest it could've been. About how I'm surprised she could keep her mouth shut for more than four minutes. Or maybe an hour.

But you wouldn't laugh.
Not even crickets.
I'd be begging for the spoiled tomatoes.
I'd deserve the hook.

As it stands - without the joke - I'm hoping for a haunting.
I want to hear her scream again.
I want you to throw on the sheet with the three holes in it
and come around here, all quiet.

I'd tell you to call her up and tell her she's missing a helluva party.
Tell her we got some things here that are real high up and we need her help to reach them
or at least laugh at them. We got some things that need crushing
and some things that need burning.
I'd tell you to bundle yourself up in some skin and some guts
because it's a chilly fucking world without the fire and you'll catch your death of cold out here, Idiot.
I'd look right at you and tell you to shut up with all that shut-up.
I'd put on some Nirvana or some Pixies.
Some CCR to see if you'd sing along.
Some Zombies.

I've got her in my contacts twice and I'll be waiting
for her to call back, from this barstool until forever becomes now.
Or maybe yesterday.
Two months ago. Or at least last Thanksgiving.
Until that Big New Year's Eve when Zero finally means something, I'll be
dashing to a volume dial every time I hear a Bright Eyes or a Modest Mouse
or Weakerthans song.
No matter where I am.
And I'll crank that fucker way, way up.
I'll get it real high. I'll ride it 'til it doesn't go anywhere anymore.

Hoping to hear her scream.
Hoping to make you forget why you came here with your hands on the doors
and your feet on the floor and the shut-up.
Hoping she'll scream over it just to be heard.
Maybe you'll sing along.
Maybe you'll make me smile.
Or maybe the silence will make sense for once.

...
for Nicole McLoughlin
5/8/84 - 12/29/09

i love you, kid. i miss you and really, really hope i get to see you again and that that's how these things work out. i'm keeping my fingers crossed, beautiful.
-andy

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Pep Band Blood

We find ourselves Here again
where the creaking, cracking sounds remind us
of laughter - Middle School Laughter.
Something almost mean about it.
The squeak of sneakers on shiny reflections,
whistles and shot clock buzzers like angry murder
and cages
and that Smell.
Not quite a new notebook.
Not quite salisbury steak farts.
A green, fading & curling.
A confidence well-worn but still scratchy.

They play the same songs at
basketball games - Professional, even - where they let
the blood of Pep Bands trickle down the pyramid steps,
praying it will enrich the waxed soil below
at least as much as the Shit-Talk
and that creaking, cracking laughter.
Bouncing down corridors that don't go anywhere and
penetrating the corners we should be making out in,
but usually end up vomiting all over.
That laughter snaps like
text spines
or old doors
or thin, dead wood.
or whatever we choose to consider a portal.
Like wet dreams
or cancer cells.
Through those same empty hallways
after the Bell.

We find ourselves Here again and
drunk as I may be,
I know these stairwells like the back of my goddamn hand.


...
that was the first thing i wrote after a long quiet period back in 2008. i didn't care for it much at the time, but it's grown on me. it was also the first in a series of single-page, once-a-day-ers. it may be responsible for my newfound discipline regarding my writing.
-andy

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Fucking Cancer

Fucking Cancer has removed the Joker from
Death's deck of Numbered Suits.
No more Surprise.
Forget it.
None of your loved ones gonna get it by Shark Attack, Shootout
or Helicopter Crash. Except maybe The One.
The One.
And no matter what they did in Life.
No matter their earthly matters.
They will hereafter be known as "Yeah, The One who was decapitated
by whirling propellers." or "...Bit in half by
Carcharodon Carcharias all 'CHOMP! CHOMP!'"
The One forever defined in the racket and mess of an Exit,
despite the quality afforded by Lungs & Blood.
The One will be all that we know of Spontaneity
of Refreshment.
All "BOO!" and your fucking heart tears itself in a trillion pieces for all the goddamn pain
and confusion and throws itself away like it just didn't know what to do with itself in the face of such a bold and beautiful fuckin bullshit Birthday Present.
Forget it.
But the rest of us?
Lose the poker face. You can't be happy about your hand.
You don't get the Bullets and the Fire
The Passion & The Glory.
The Rest of Us?
Fucking Cancer.
That's what was waiting in Post-Industrialism's Bucket
at the Grand Prize Game.
Congratulations, Bozo.


...
this was actually originally part of a bigger poem about Van Morrison (or more specifically, my reaction to and appreciation of his music), i never thought it really fit quite right in that piece. so i ripped it out and now they're two separate things. enjoy!
-andy

Friday, February 5, 2010

Some Stories

I've been considering hitting up
the nearest Presbyterian church lately
on some Somber, Sober Sunday
when it's the morning's eagerness to commune
that wakes me up
and not the Headache
not some sardonic hangover that thinks
mustaches are funny.
Because I don't want to feel like
the Service is some kind of deal with
a back-end and lawyers
I don't want ink and paper binding and
memo-ing my desire to
just sit
with some strangers
and listen to some stories.
In the same big room
where some people promise to Honor
each other until they Die
and lie down in the same big room
where maybe some of the same people
say nice things about them
and cry
and Honor them still.
With that church smell
that smells like cub scout meetings
and old books
and people being quiet together.
That shiny wood polished by Gossip.
That colorful glass stained by
shushed giggles.
That Dead Dude forever awake and slouching
in Daydream,
arms trying to Hug Everything all at once
but Frozen.
Pinned back like a butterfly
under classification and study.
The lowlight and hymns
voices trying to sound good together
and everyone there to just
sit
among familiar strangers
and listen
to some stories.
Together.


...
wrote that some Sunday, probably hungover, at the end of 2008 before working a matinee show. i've been to church since (the following Easter) and feel like i got most of it out of my system. ...most of it.
-andy

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Call Yourself

Once you call yourself some kind
of Titled Thing or call yourself
a cab in a rush not to be late for some kind
of dinner, well then, you've got
your work cut out for you,
don't you, Smart Guy.
And someday, somebody's gonna
crack you open and take
a good, long look
just so nobody calls them judgemental.
And they're gonna get out a red pen
and underline all over your insides,
Smart Guy, gonna scribble little
notes all up in your margins
fill you up with their ideas about what
you mean.
Someday, that cab's gonna crash,
Smart Guy, and your ghost
gonna go hungry
and cold.


...
yeah. i realize most of these have been downers lately.
for some reason that's the kind of tone my work has taken
over the last few months. sorry.
-andy