i guess today is one of those days where i post a poem or something. yeah.
Love Poem
The Conclusion: Liberia, timber and diamonds, timber and diamonds,
keeps its cool and doesnt panic. It lives and lives on, and regardless
of the North Atlantic yelling at it to stop its putsch,
it doesnt but lets get to the beginning.
The Beginning: Death and Love met at the bar, 9 oclock sharp,
The Eagle in Exile on North 4th, throwing back shots of Jack,
flirting with the waitress, brunette, with barrettes
and always always always tipping the bartender.
Taking turns puking, one right after the other,
and since they live in Columbus, the Buckeyes
are always on the big screens - red and silver,
Katzenmoyer hogging all the spotlight and
Death plays nine ball. Sharking like a motherfucker,
Love says, but theres no substance to it and Love empties
his wallet of everything by the end
of the night except the picture of his wife,
probably off with another man, probably from Dublin,
probably watching Friends reruns and screwing,
talking about some future that includes the following:
Pergo kitchen floors, a little shit of a dog, sending
their kids to Coffman. Love gets pissed because
Death graduated from Coffman, class of 88,
the Rocks star high jumper, 6th at States his senior year.
Love sits Death back down at their table and gets another beer,
another round, no chasers, OSU glasses because
its Columbus and around here, Death and Love always
have and always will drink for free. Love explains
that Death has a lot of growing up to do, a helluva lot.
Death sits and listens, mouth wet with whiskey, head in the ashtray,
and thinks, If Love had seen half the things Ive seen,
we wouldnt be having this discussion. When Doe got to Tolbert,
even I didnt want to be there - Tolberts guts
waving to him from below. After Doe slit his throat,
Monrovia stood still and I wanted to tell them that
this wasnt my doing. As the executioners went through the beaches
drunk, missing their marks tied to electric poles on the boardwalks,
the kids covered their eyes. When they finally hit their targets,
their heads fell like toys. Think of their psyches! Think
of the heads at their doorsteps without bodies. Think of the kids
toting their guns like some great redeemers, and I remember
thinking that there is no redemption in Nimba county;
no redemption in Monrovia.
The Real Conclusion: shame on us.
Love Poem
The Conclusion: Liberia, timber and diamonds, timber and diamonds,
keeps its cool and doesnt panic. It lives and lives on, and regardless
of the North Atlantic yelling at it to stop its putsch,
it doesnt but lets get to the beginning.
The Beginning: Death and Love met at the bar, 9 oclock sharp,
The Eagle in Exile on North 4th, throwing back shots of Jack,
flirting with the waitress, brunette, with barrettes
and always always always tipping the bartender.
Taking turns puking, one right after the other,
and since they live in Columbus, the Buckeyes
are always on the big screens - red and silver,
Katzenmoyer hogging all the spotlight and
Death plays nine ball. Sharking like a motherfucker,
Love says, but theres no substance to it and Love empties
his wallet of everything by the end
of the night except the picture of his wife,
probably off with another man, probably from Dublin,
probably watching Friends reruns and screwing,
talking about some future that includes the following:
Pergo kitchen floors, a little shit of a dog, sending
their kids to Coffman. Love gets pissed because
Death graduated from Coffman, class of 88,
the Rocks star high jumper, 6th at States his senior year.
Love sits Death back down at their table and gets another beer,
another round, no chasers, OSU glasses because
its Columbus and around here, Death and Love always
have and always will drink for free. Love explains
that Death has a lot of growing up to do, a helluva lot.
Death sits and listens, mouth wet with whiskey, head in the ashtray,
and thinks, If Love had seen half the things Ive seen,
we wouldnt be having this discussion. When Doe got to Tolbert,
even I didnt want to be there - Tolberts guts
waving to him from below. After Doe slit his throat,
Monrovia stood still and I wanted to tell them that
this wasnt my doing. As the executioners went through the beaches
drunk, missing their marks tied to electric poles on the boardwalks,
the kids covered their eyes. When they finally hit their targets,
their heads fell like toys. Think of their psyches! Think
of the heads at their doorsteps without bodies. Think of the kids
toting their guns like some great redeemers, and I remember
thinking that there is no redemption in Nimba county;
no redemption in Monrovia.
The Real Conclusion: shame on us.