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Joseph Goosey, 3 poems

4/4/2014

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Picture
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
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