Thursday, March 8, 2007

where i am from? i lost me map, mate and have had all this rum.

where i am from?

the womb of our mother. scott did you like the graffitti i left for you?

do you thin kthe cesaereans screwed up our ju-ju? pergatory horoscopes?

okay, scott. i have finished your assignment. i only had a few minutes after work and we have to lock up the center now so i think i may have lost some consistency and screwed up the format but you'll get the bag.

i figure i will post my poem as a comment to this blog so that you guys don't have to read it until you both do the same thing and then we can all see them here as comments. yeah? yeah.

bottoms up.


  1. i am from petoskey stones,
    from volkswagen sciroccos and delta 88s.

    i am from shady hollows, midwest sewage-creeks and crayfish, (contagious and safely wild like the silent anticipation of thunder).

    i am from the weeping willow by the gravel drive out front (out back) and snails sticking to the spiles.

    i am from the detroit tigers and sunburns, from ruthie and the jims and the ghost of bizmarck.

    i am from the beach boys and carbon monoxide.

    i am from the egg-shell-walkers, the tragic-nostalgics, and the tongue-swallowers.

    from “ that’s why you’ll never go to disney world” and “we’ll see”.

    i am from outside the windows of the church with the red of reprimands and from the invisible fence at my bedroom door.

    i’m from harsen’s island and sutton’s bay, penny candy and cincinnati chili.

    i am from scott’s sunken boat, big bob’s crocheted penis warmer, and wbf’s final now-you-see-him-now-you-don’t trick.

    i am from the cabinets’ top shelves in the utility room holding 10 stories for every 1 i know but won’t remember. but god i wish i could. i remember the feeling if not the particulars. calm like a sunday with a royal flush and a whiskey sour is the feeling for the dusty wedding shower gift that arrived there at a lawn party in the summer of ’73 i know nothing about. i am from there and i have landed at a place without lawn parties but with the distinct history of them. a place without loud nights on porches but with the wisps of those sounds still in the air and squatting like the ocean in the shell. a place that has never gone beyond the attempt to rival the heritage of a time it lived out, always sad in the short fall. everything looks better in the quick-clip of 8 mm film.

    i am from those silent, scratchy films. i am in them, there to see, small and toothless, waving and moving faster than i ever will, trying to catch up with where i am from and wondering how to go back.

  2. the freakin' thing on the main page.