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

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

Howard, Zelda, and J.D.

Death is not a guy, or a cartoon
or even a Force. It's just sorta this stupid thing that
kinda happens. But we lay out these
clothes around it so we have someplace
to pin our anger. We draw pictures
with features -
eyes to spit in
a nose to bloody
a mouth to crack open and stretch wide
around pain & fear, full of teeth to
knock loose and make rattles of.
We pull a hood over it and call it names,
give it weapons so it can fight back.
So we don't feel so bad about hating it so much.
We're just putting faces on potatoes.
Like we're gonna boil, bake and
mash death. Make it easier to swallow.
But we can't eat Death and it doesn't
eat us because death is not a creature.
It's just sorta this shitty stupid fucking dumb thing that kinda happens
to everything.


...
wrote that before i knew about any of the three timely, yet still quite upsetting losses on the 27th - oddly enough. good bye to Zinn, Rubinstein, and Salinger, you (or they?) all had a rather profound impact on my life at different stages and gave a lot to this world in their turns.

Thanks a ton. You'll be missed. I'll be drinking plenty of Old Crow, Ancient Age, Old Granddad, and Early Times to you.
-andy