God Hates Parodies

(apologies to Ogden Nash)

The Westboro,
The Westboro!
Their signs are red and bright yellow!
Their words are rank and cowardly!
They’re sure Satan devours thee!
They’re protesting for you and me,
God hates you
If you
Disagree!
Their eyes are blank but pinwheely,
And crazy,
Whirly,
Hate-zealy!

The Westboro,
The Westboro!
I saw them just three tweets ago!
Last night they were in Arkansas;
Tonight, they picket Omaha!
As you are sinning in your bed
They’re repeating what Fred has said.
They know
Just what God hates.
That’s fact.
So God loves those who just lack tact.

In Vino Veritas

My friend tells me
Theres a balance
Beam metaphor

Dont she says
Don’t look down
Those people

Her nod
Imperceptible
And flavored

With two kinds
Of red wine
At some invisible

Group of
Down lookers
They she says

Those people
Look
Down

So as we
Eye our
Prize

Fix your stare
Full steam ahead
Don’t let the whines

Go to your head

singing to the moon

I wonder why you stare at me,
And then I wonder not.
For once I had some clarity,
Which since then I’ve forgot.

The moon smiles down upon Earth,
A scintillating glow.
And every night I hope and pray
That he’ll repeat the show.

My mother sings to me each night,
“The moon’s a wandering clown,
Which slowly, monthly, night by night,
Turns a smile from a frown.”

My father speaks more practically,
(He’s an educated man.)
“The moon is made of greenish cheese,
That’s been fried up in a pan.”

But Grandpa is my wisest friend,
He knows his story’s true.
“The heavens wished to have a child,
And from the sun it grew.”

I dared to ask my Auntie,
Though she has superstitious fear,
“Such talk about the wicked moon
Will soon bring witches here!”

So I wonder why you stare at me,
From your crib, my baby sis.
For once I had some clarity,
And that, I think, is this:

The moon is not a cheesy thing,
Nor a wandering fellow is it.
It doesn’t call the sun its mom,
Or make witches pay a visit.

The moon is made of dust and rock,
No water should there be,
But no matter what it has inside,
It’s beautiful to me.

Windmill

Holland reference. Hot dog reference.
Don Quixote reference. Me, he, and
Sancho Panza tilting towards the tee,
each hoping to shoot better than par 3,
a dollar per hole and five overall,
competitive in this child’s fantasy
world, birthday party bunch two holes ahead
of us, laughing too much, failing to take
the game seriously. We’ll have to skip
passed them once we catch up, pray that no one
is on the holes we need to replay, or
we won’t have enough time for the arcade,
the batting cage, the rest of the day’s plans,
me, my happy friend, and this crazy man.

Reunion Show

The Knights of Columbus parking lot was smaller than he remembered. It fit the same amount of cars — two rows of twenty on the side, and four rows of twelve in the back — but it looked more like an outgrown toy than something real. He remembers the way it used to look on the night of a show, like the busiest joint in town, the countercultural hub of the universe, with kids shuffling in from all across the state to catch the next new punk rock band that would blow up on the scene like a roman candle before their chords would dissipate into the air as the reverb faded away into hushed suburban legends of what could have been.

Kevin found a parking spot one block away on the street behind the venue. He immediately flashed back like a war veteran to that irrational panic of getting his car towed by the fascist neighbors hellbent on shutting down the show, but his fears subsided when he noticed that his was the only car on the block that wasn’t covered in stickers of some obscure bands, as well as the only one that looked like it could actually run. He double-checked to make sure that he locked the doors. When he did he become such a grownup, scared of what the freakshow ruffians might do behind his back? When did he become The Man, and so afraid of what he used to be?

As he shuffled between the cars and made his way towards the door, Kevin took note of all the fresh familiar faces that filled the parking lot. He didn’t know any of them specifically, but he knew their types — the smokers, and the older kids pounding PBRs in the back, the unhappy but supportive girlfriends who can’t stand the crowds, the kid who’s pacing around in hopes that he won’t have to pay the five buck cover, and what he could only assume was the Scene Queen and her flock passing judgement on their subjects. He wondered if he looked as alien as he felt, returning to the place he once called home.

Then he noticed the sign on the door: “Epidural Colonic Brigade Reunion Show – One Night Only!” and he wondered why he came, why he told the rest of the band he wouldn’t play, and why he still decided to show up tonight, return to the world he thought he’d left behind. Kevin heard the back door to the club swung up open with a sudden bang, startling the collected drunks, and he watched as a pair of sweaty, sloppy teens struggled to carry a Marshall half-stack across the threshold. The boys both glowed with that post-coital radiance of young love. But it wasn’t for sex; it was rock and roll. And then he remembered the feeling, that adrenaline thrill of shitty sound levels, playing on the floor on the same plane with the audience, and for that brief flash of time, ruling the world.

Eight Days Later

I don’t worry, but eight days later the thought crosses my mind, much in the way that it occurs to me to tell my mother that we’ve run out of toilet paper in the bathroom, or that I’d like to try a different breakfast cereal. It is nine p.m., an hour before the pharmacy closes. I creak open the door to my room just slightly and peer through the slit, and can see light glowing from underneath my mother’s room. I slip quietly out the front door and walk twenty minutes, one mile, to the closest drugstore.

This is the first time I have shook. Of all times, it is now. I don’t know why, but I already know the answer.

Now it’s dark enough for the streetlights, but they don’t help enough.

I buy the test on sale. It is a name brand, which seems like the right decision to make in a moment like this. I’ve brought a poetry book with me, and I slip the box off the shelf and try obscure it between the pages. It’s too big, and my plan doesn’t work.

They are cleaning up already. They should be. It’s time to close. I step over a broom leaning across the aisle and walk to the register.

Pay cash.

Walk a mile home.

Based On An Already Questionable Definition Of “Cool”

“I like your shirt. You always have the coolest ones.”

The friend who had said that spoke from the edge of a larger gathering in the corner of a bar, but they were all paying attention. Most of them nodded in agreement; none sneered or otherwise openly disputed it.

The shirt(s) in question hadn’t been anything special. Quirky designs, frequently relating to a movie or game or genre of music. Images that were humorous without being a hacky punchline. Purchased from the corners of the internet where the wearers, people like me, hoped that interesting and cool people bought shirts. (But not because those other people were interesting and cool. If you catch my distinction.)

Five years later, I ran into that friend, randomly, at a coffee shop — in the same line for unnecessary drinks. We caught up, it had been too long, where you living now, and all that. After he left and I waited for my order, I realized I had just a plain black t shirt on. Boring and standard. Had it been a let down? Did it seem like I changed, when the stuffed dresser drawers back in my apartment assured me I had not?

Only then did I realize that maybe, just perhaps, the original comment had not been a sincere compliment. That it was an open jab, with the group’s silent affirmation being against me and not for. I spent the afternoon staring at a blank page and turning this over in my mind, pulling out as high a resolution memory of the moment as I could. In the end, nothing convinced me that my friend had meant any malice. Nothing conclusive, anyway. Once evening came, I focused on my current amazement at my past willingness to take the compliment without question. I longed for the time when I was that open to people saying something positive about me. I longed for when I assumed my friends thought I might be cool.