AN ARGUMENT WITH ONESELF IN THE CHILDHOOD BEDROOM
My parents are more supportive
than most would be by this time.
Considering varied betrayal, theft, neglect,
perjury, ruined carpet, ruined car,
my parents are more supportive
than I could ever realize.
Three fourths of a broken vase sleeps in my browning sheets.
I forgot to mention my dad
asked whether I’d be willing to give up U.S. citizenship
in exchange for -
I cut him off -
and said yes. You didn’t allow me to -
yes, I say, yes, Have you been to Cleveland?
It seems a shame, he says, nobody really -
yes, I say, yes they do,
it’s just that I don’t.
What doesn’t follow is a heated patio argument in a one-act play.
Little halos do not surround in the mornings,
especially Mondays that are trash.
Take me to Taco Bell and if you don’t
you’ll be so disappointed I’ll keep you up all night
scratching and reenacting episodes of The X-Files
until you’ve no choice but to negotiate.
There is time that I hold
as one would a Robin by the throat.
Fourth meal
never expires.
*
SCHEMES
Some cigarette burns Rapunzel from the ground up
and in this bar that has changed names
more than I have changed views
on matters of concrete prayer
what faces west: I claim that once there were people
who wished there were people. I am comfy
when there isn’t a pair of pupils in the room
who haven’t yet gone out of their way
to save me from certain lateness of wage labor.
Punctuality is a turd
but the degree to which others care
is worth an angel food cake.
The wine on my jeans might get me mistaken for a painter.
Being mistaken for a painter has been my aim since I could speak.
Out of the top ten silly mistakes that could’ve resulted in an execution
eight contain half-cocked portraits of people
who let me fuck away their daisies,
their idolized idea of what fun could be. I once held
the same lamb
but was impaled in a dream
involving Legoland and coworkers.
Why isn’t there a rapper putting out mixtapes
under the name RAPunzel?
There might be a rapper putting out mixtapes
under the name RAPunzel
but that rapper is probably walking Dallas street right now
drinking from a foam cup and spitting out reflections of a future.
Spit. Spit RAPunzel. Spit all over your friends.
They will hate you tonight and maybe tomorrow
but when you get that bread
they will be rats you’re willing to feed.
*
THE DETROIT LIONS AS A POEM
A back breaks oneself
in anticipation of an elegant series of images
which, while winning merit scholarships as individuals,
fail to act cohesively when it comes time for the choreography.
I need not speak her name three times in the mirror.
One will do
and unfortunately
she appears.
Once she appears
she doesn’t leave. I mean,
like ever. It’s as though she has no job,
never wants a Danish,
never needs meds,
never wants sun or Johnny Walker Red Label miniatures
or simply to trip through the day.
She is a faux-fur coat
purchased as a novelty in July.
Of asphyxiation
I lose the thumb war.
-Joseph Goosey
My parents are more supportive
than most would be by this time.
Considering varied betrayal, theft, neglect,
perjury, ruined carpet, ruined car,
my parents are more supportive
than I could ever realize.
Three fourths of a broken vase sleeps in my browning sheets.
I forgot to mention my dad
asked whether I’d be willing to give up U.S. citizenship
in exchange for -
I cut him off -
and said yes. You didn’t allow me to -
yes, I say, yes, Have you been to Cleveland?
It seems a shame, he says, nobody really -
yes, I say, yes they do,
it’s just that I don’t.
What doesn’t follow is a heated patio argument in a one-act play.
Little halos do not surround in the mornings,
especially Mondays that are trash.
Take me to Taco Bell and if you don’t
you’ll be so disappointed I’ll keep you up all night
scratching and reenacting episodes of The X-Files
until you’ve no choice but to negotiate.
There is time that I hold
as one would a Robin by the throat.
Fourth meal
never expires.
*
SCHEMES
Some cigarette burns Rapunzel from the ground up
and in this bar that has changed names
more than I have changed views
on matters of concrete prayer
what faces west: I claim that once there were people
who wished there were people. I am comfy
when there isn’t a pair of pupils in the room
who haven’t yet gone out of their way
to save me from certain lateness of wage labor.
Punctuality is a turd
but the degree to which others care
is worth an angel food cake.
The wine on my jeans might get me mistaken for a painter.
Being mistaken for a painter has been my aim since I could speak.
Out of the top ten silly mistakes that could’ve resulted in an execution
eight contain half-cocked portraits of people
who let me fuck away their daisies,
their idolized idea of what fun could be. I once held
the same lamb
but was impaled in a dream
involving Legoland and coworkers.
Why isn’t there a rapper putting out mixtapes
under the name RAPunzel?
There might be a rapper putting out mixtapes
under the name RAPunzel
but that rapper is probably walking Dallas street right now
drinking from a foam cup and spitting out reflections of a future.
Spit. Spit RAPunzel. Spit all over your friends.
They will hate you tonight and maybe tomorrow
but when you get that bread
they will be rats you’re willing to feed.
*
THE DETROIT LIONS AS A POEM
A back breaks oneself
in anticipation of an elegant series of images
which, while winning merit scholarships as individuals,
fail to act cohesively when it comes time for the choreography.
I need not speak her name three times in the mirror.
One will do
and unfortunately
she appears.
Once she appears
she doesn’t leave. I mean,
like ever. It’s as though she has no job,
never wants a Danish,
never needs meds,
never wants sun or Johnny Walker Red Label miniatures
or simply to trip through the day.
She is a faux-fur coat
purchased as a novelty in July.
Of asphyxiation
I lose the thumb war.
-Joseph Goosey
