R

One was a cringing thistle
who could barely lift the pen,

another the sucking clay he grew in,
while the me who kept his garden tidy

had long since taken to girlish drink and died
of margaritas.  One me wrote in cursive,

but not his Christian name, then two
gave synopses of famous books

in glorious print, red English.
The short me was a charming liar

—“Call me Ishmael, motherfucker”—
and the last three hunched at a mirror

while they signed, one razing his lecher beard,
one letting his grow in hope

of a better story.  The last guy took and closed
the ledger, put his stamp on its spine,

found a window (the Mes were high),
and let it go.  The tome fell

ten stories onto the head of a man
on a bad date—she knew fashion

and kept taking out her phone—knocking him free
of the whole thing.  The man was me.

I’d write back to solid guys like them
that other cities are possible

(their hearts flushed of dead holdings,
the streets flush with readers
and clean as new mirrors)

give them cause to stop in this place and hold it,
I’d write about the pleasure

of tasks and aloneness,
but don’t have the address.

A sixth borough?  The great Midwest,
Apt. 5K ½ ?  Love go bereft.

I never thanked my upstairs brothers.
Write your name down once, you’ll never have another.

Also, a new poem, “At the Book Awards,” will be released / unleashed in this very blog very soon.  Behave yourselves.

-Ryan

- Ryan

Good boys flush with songs
You’d called out through, and who called, too—
Remember those mumblecore shipwrecks?

I bet the way you told it later it was like the opera
Or a bodega that doesn’t sell what you need
At last call, just weird gum and diet tonic.

If you don’t remember, that’s fine, me neither.
Were you the girl in the blue scarf
I met at Todd’s?  The massage therapist.  We didn’t?

Still, this could be friendship
Like a black-and-white film,
Us wearing khaki, colonial runway,
Liaison over because of the strikes—

Last plane out.  Remember growing up tuned
To strings so cool they’d spin
Love out of hateful hours, like school?
I don’t, because no one did, hence Boswell and gin.

Him?  It’s like Harry Potter lurched
Around town a sensitive pervert.
Sure, thanks: happy hour is father to the man,
This patio is a green goblet, and I’m not nearly done.

One thing, what’s the difference
Between repellent and repulsive?
I like you already and trust you’ll say—I had a couplet
Once that knew but waking up I lost it.

Nonetheless I am an instrument for telling
That can read your fortune
Like craigslist, so relax.
Though beyond the nearest fence

Unlucky men still bark, they’ll be fine, and you too,
Because before you knew it, before you even paid for your wine,
I came over and tried this line by line,
A pick-up like any poem, bullshit that’s true.

Bros  —>  http://mondette.com/effieandlucile/2011/07/01/arts-a-day-at-the-huntington-library-and-gardens-with-artist-john-frame/

Eighteenth-century bros  —>  http://www.amazon.com/Journals-James-Boswell-1762-1795/dp/0300060742/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1310358217&sr=8-1

Anyway, the mind.  Like a junkie in the bushes
I took too much, too much, my blood
pouring trouble, all tiger drips.  Grades got me out
to the next part of town, which was nicer, kind of a plaid
that smells like parks or paperbacks,
and the houses are boxwood-bright.
I saw the governor there, he was begging
his gardeners for stones to loan a mistress,
but no one spoke Spanish.  Later I heard a Prius
hit something and sobs in a bonsai garden,
but their kids have all read Rilke
and their kids are into getting hold of Vicodin.

So a mind found a place in a different belt,
co-ops, pale ales, and coke,
the Guatemalan food was tight, the wine dive
next door too.  Public school was the thing
but they offered AP Art and band
so if you had kids they could expand there.
I’d walk to work—used shirts—then girls most nights
in boots on bikes, mellow as half-sleeves.
Two a.m. got dicey: last call drew the sharks.
Sat on the beach, smoked weed, and read Gucci,
heard Philip Larkin and stole Mozart’s loosies
under skies like blue corduroy.
My shirts took off with the local boys,
who took them to shows, so I went online
till Brooklyn and Stockholm helped me sell the store.

Eventually mind bought a house,
not much down.  This hood had gardens
near its farmers’ market but still needed
that district station after dark, but still
the blocks were getting good.  Young doctors.
We fixed the sun room, saw Cairo on foot,
grew basil.  Because I had a study
my imaginary son would read, I would read,
but his mother slowly dipped out.
Once I dipped out to the corner store
and came back and she told me more
than I wanted to hear, trust me.

My mind later found itself an erstwhile lemon grove
where no one was at noon.  The Valley nodded
its plunder while I kept summarizing
what she’d told, quiet like a lawn,
and even later, the mind, not getting on with the neighbors,
gets loud some nights about itself
and the sales and palm trees at Target,
its latest beef with the world.
Who owns the main road?  One of you knows.
My cell vibrates—
“Hold on.  You’re going in and out.  Someone’s firing.”