The little girl next to me
is playing noughts and crosses
by herself.
I’m not quite sure who’s winning
but she’s a skillful player.
She doesn’t know i’m watching,
probably because she’s
concentrating
twice as hard.
Noughts went first last game,
now it’s crosses.
I’m eager to interrupt, offer a
spare set of hands,
a new perspective.
But then again, maybe the rest of us
have been playing it wrong
all along.
Day: March 12, 2010
The Founding of Boston, Or: How to Build The Worst Place in the World (A Revision)
poetryStep 1: Abolish the Sun
surreptitiously slip it under the mattress
inside the air duct or wrapped up in a pair of soiled socks.
that shit should be harder to find than porn.
it should be gone so long people forget its color forget its purpose
forget the fact we orbit the fucking thing and begin to think
earth drifts listlessly on a blank page.
Step 2: Institute Permanent Cloud Cover
throw a big sheet of depressing gloom over the sky
it should be soaked thick with soviet cement
so uniformly it numbs minds
crushes souls acts as a collective headstone
making people constantly contemplate
and compose inevitable epitaphs.
Step 3: Mandate Rain
get those fuckers wet.
go ahead and reroute the seas to the skies
and revise the water cycle to skip condensation
in compensation for perpetual precipitation.
it should soak through boots socks skin sink in to bones
till they’re less likes stones more like foam.
it should create standing puddles so immense passing cars
kick tidal waves—or sink like ships into an abyss.
Step 4: Decree Decreased Temperatures
slow down molecules to a near fucking standstill
but never grant them the soft relief of an absolute zero sleep.
it should be so cold skin dries cracks bleeds without provocation.
passing pedestrians should be reduced to pairs of eyes
peering hopelessly from piles of outerwear
on the precipice of petrification.
Step 5: Enact Gale-Force Gusts
let trees street signs and people bend at seventy degree angles.
it should be so windy windows shake nearly shattering
rain from step three should be redirected horizontally
and together with the wind should pluck umbrellas from fierce grips
turn them inside out or send them sailing
leaving the defeated drenched denizens woefully wondering
“Why the fuck do I live here?”
We sure did play a lot of music together.
poetryThere’s a talk we always used to have
we’ll never have again
and now I miss you already
but that’s just how these
things gotta go, you know?
And that project that we started
last March, if I remember right
I guess we’ll never finish like you
wanted to. But I guess that’s
gotta be okay now. I guess
that’s what we’ll work with.
But Man,
it’s gonna be hard working
without you.