Published Fall 2006
 
litany
save us oh bull session from #1 tin temper
preserve us in this mangling monotony
so that we might temper every minute of this day
this night, these afternoons, our lives
and emerge smooth and supple
to shoot thy praises
save us oh shouted whisper
of trout or sex or sports or kids
from losing it at Hillbilly Bob Turner
from his steely transmission
of men and minutes into money
oh keep our bull fingers from his stringy neck;
oh wax poetic the kid's tee-ball homer
prom dress diploma touchdown,
of good grades and the girl the boy sing
the one who'll make it out
so Big Bob's bray
just assholes and elbows boys
that's all i wanta see
recedes absurd
unheard by steelworkers' son or daughter again
amen
save us oh baseball argument
of Mantle vs. Mays vs. Bonds vs. the Babe
oh shared reverie of the curse the streak the catch
free us from heavy stickers and tension reels
screwed so tight
you can't zone even half a mo
until you almost go buggy
want to scream like the tin
being crushed, finished, as they say,
to a fine flat featureless sheen
just off your left elbow
and because the scream that would finish
me would finish you too oh great bull session
grant that we may still that scream
without strangling, grant me and Four Eyes Terry
a vision of glass packs on Dirty Red's GTO
how they rumble, how rubber is laid, how cops freak
loose your word horde, oh Fatso
on that silicon blonde with the dragon tattoos
she who shakes so bad at El Morocco
she who swears she's sweet on you
though we wouldn't trust her
any further than we could throw her
and neither do you
but tell us anyhow
crack the scuttlebutt
of anything but this clock,
this roaring midnight, this death by inches minutes seconds
give us something, even a total sack
of shit, make me get out my hip boots to wade it
tell us how she snuggled your Super Glide
till you had to kick-start that monster
stone drunk at 4AM, tell us how her fingers hands arms
thighs clutched your big wide butt while Lakeshore whizzed
by at 95 until the sun came all over the Gold Coast
tell us it's none of our fucking business
what your old lady said when you dragged in at 8:00AM
leave us some mystery oh Fatso
and maybe we can stand it, and maybe you can
too and maybe the hot blast from the feeder's fan
will seem a dawn breeze, a cool ride with desire
and not 3:37AM 100 decibels 90 degrees Fahrenheit
and another goddamned strip break
and promise us oh promise us
you keepers of the sacred lies
and truths a whopper as tasty as Shitty Smitty
told about those guys on graveyard
who cut the juice off the plant super's
go buggy then plugged it back
in just before he the company president
and the governor of Indiana arrived
for their "Ain't we some hot shit?" plant tour
so the buggy died and they had to hoof it
back from batch anneal last August
near a mile in 110 degrees; tell us
how sweaty, scared and red faced they looked
and of their sharkskin suits and little pussy
shoes and about how daylight laughed
and laughed its ass off too
let us remember and grow strong
save us oh bull session oh breeze shooting
oh chewed rag scuttlebutt skinny, oh lies and truth
give us the grit, shit and wit we need
to do more with life than just suck it up
armor us with laughter, drape us in self-regard, grant us
a breather a blow a sit down a smoke
break, some smidgen of strength and space that's ours
some place to shake the kinks before they cramp
bless us oh bull session
for we have really fucked up
|
