Tuesday, October 12, 2010

When my little brother got married

I was going to wait
till after they said their vows in front of the judge
give them a four-leaf clover I found.

I was going to say something like

This is for good luck
with everything
It took me a long time to find this
So don’t fucking lose it
little brother.


But I didn’t.

I used to beat him up when we were younger
I was much stronger than him.
It used to be no problem to win.
I used to just have to raise my voice and point my finger or stomp my foot.

I used to watch him do all of these tricks on his bmx.
watch his head snap back and look at me as soon as he’d land
I used to be asked for approval.

I used to say things like

That was ok
Eh, that was kind of sketchy
You got pretty close on that one
Good, but you can do better


He’s tough.
He could beat the shit out of you.

A few years ago we almost fought in our parents garage.
We were much older than before.
I remember thinking he could beat me
hoped his memories would hold steady

He backed down and said

I don’t want to fight you.
You’re my brother.

That was really nice,
I do that a lot
Rely on old memories people have of me.

When I was stronger.
When I was romantic.
When I was a baby.

But anyway
This is for my brother.
I want to say

Congratulations
Merry Christmas
Happy Birthday
Happy Anniversary
I still have that clover
If you want it

come and get it
I miss you.

1 comment:

  1. sitting tonight
    at this
    table
    by the
    window

    the woman is
    glooming
    in the
    bedroom

    these are her
    especially bad
    days.

    well, i have
    mine

    so
    in deference
    to her

    the typewriter
    is
    still.

    it's odd,
    printing this stuff
    by
    hand

    reminds me of
    days
    past
    when things were
    mot
    going well
    in another
    fashion.

    now
    the cat comes to
    see
    me

    he flops
    under the table
    between my
    feet

    we are both
    melting
    in the same
    fire.

    and, dear
    cat, we're still
    working with the
    poem

    and some have
    noted
    that there's some
    "slippage"
    here.

    well, at age
    65, i can
    "slip"
    plenty, yet still
    run rings
    around
    those pamby
    critics.

    Li Po knew
    what to do:
    drink another
    bottle and
    face
    the consequences.

    i turn to my
    right, see this huge
    head (reflected in the
    window) sucking at
    a cigarette
    and

    we grin at
    each
    other.

    then
    i turn
    back

    sit here
    and
    print more words upon this
    paper

    there is never
    a final
    grand
    statement

    and that's the
    fix
    and the trick
    that works
    against
    us

    but
    i wish you could see
    my
    cat

    he has a
    splash
    of white on his
    face
    against an
    orange-yellow
    background

    and then
    as i look up
    and into the
    kitchen

    i see a bright
    portion
    under the overhead
    light

    that shades into
    darkness
    and then into darker
    darkness and
    i can't see
    beyond
    that.

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