SOMETHING ONGOING: a poem by Joseph Goosey

Writing

Nov 18

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Best call Lambda.

The water has broken
and despite a couple of decent dinners
I completely forget his name. I think
it was George but what seems important
hardly is.

After sucking a poem or two out of him in May
I quit saying there was time for another glass of wine.

There was never really time for anything
because I was working on this one poem
or at last telling myself that I was
at night. I had began seeing cats

running across the floor
before living with any and also
neglecting to pay the rent
and you care
little about this
but I’m trying
to be open as possible
which often includes
shit nobody wants to hear so what I mean
by saying I sucked a poem or two out of him
in May is that he learned
by two or three in the afternoon
I’d be amenable to just about anything
especially free Scaloppini.

In the mornings after, I’d come to
for a couple of hours,
just make record of our transactions.

Occasionally my father steps in
acting competent on my behalf.

Occasionally something echoes bye.

You might say Christ
but brunch sometimes is a nail.

Grassroots campaigns are such self milking cows
and I knew a girl once
still do
so strike that
from the record you’re probably not keeping
who asked me to go away

who listed the fact
that I failed to purchase a specific item
from the Tiffany’s catalogue
as reason to bade me farewell as fuck all.

She’s currently a recruiting manager
for the Peace Corps and

sometimes in sleep
I dream people change.

Having driven past all the former apartments
having burnt all of the potential palms

sometimes
we regress as a team.
I want nothing
to do with lashes.
My qualms
just burn away with the recycling.

I become paranoid in the act:
The third,
to be specific.
G’night.
There’s snow:

let’s drown. A country
is in my thighs tonight
and a cat raises qualms

while returning a Kenneth Cole suit.

Noam Chomsky got the better of me in a DC Peruvian place.
Dollar tequila shot for dollar tequila shot
because Noam simply had more dollars.

He was great. Certainly,
I agreed with everything
he had to say. I think
it may’ve been the dollar tequila.
Everyone has their tricks.

I pass out upon the pavement.

I could use a referee for daily activities.
Whether or not I agreed with his or her calls
at least suggestions otherwise would be made.
This information could be synthesized
properly rectified and or
burnt up in a tire fire on the Halloween of your choosing.

Today we remember those
who died by choice
as Bruce Springsteen sprays a load
while straddling a giant eagle,
the kind you only see
in video games
of the dream, throat, or kid.

New Jersey is where it’s at when you own a white rabbit and have the proper backing.

In tents we shared our best of nights.
I speak in plurals now. Between the cats,
and you, little track can be kept

save for the dots on our arms.

Did I mention the baby? Yeah,
I’m involving a baby
simply to take us there
as a test of solidarity. When all I want
is a Scrabble partner
who will cheat with abandon.

Sweaty and gangrene
just exiting the ninth best night of this life

the pants have been recycled into the ether
and there is a lack of massacre on broad street.

If only I could open my eyes
early enough to document the failure
maybe the drain
maybe my dad wouldn’t call about the drain.

A heart beats exclusive.

As a family we do not look forward to progress.

A town hall style meeting was held
we all ran away
with our mutual pieces of rum cake and regret.

There is a common bond between the storage closet, contacts, and trash.

Buffalo wings did dictate our Tuesdays.

In the Animal Hospital, a decree:

put me down,
stamped and screaming.

I want to know
what would be cause
for involuntary emancipation
by which I mean

strap me down in the basement of Belk

set fire to that shit

and move to Truth Or Consequences.

Snitching has never been my New England of choice.

When clams gather they tend to unionize
and my dreams are not yet prepared for such allergies.

So called men work it while so called women shake it.
Divide by the above and insert some geometry.

For some reason
now we’re on yacht.
Nobody knows
how to keep this shit from capsizing.

The nautical whatever is assumed in this mortal game of Scrabble.

Somewhere
ensconced in nylon
somebody cries
a North American cry

elsewhere
rugs are spun by the month
and given away in exchange for green beans and gallons

of hears you’ll never drink. Say Uh OH
get wild in the river.

By the way
we’re drinking orange juice by the full moon.
Keep that shit on deny.

Numbers numbers numbers numbers
way too gone
to be doing maths.

The insane portion of my ribs says no thanks
but the O’Hara in my ribs screams yay.

Nobody does it all night.
I don’t give no shit from which project you hail.
Your English class was a toilet
and sometimes the metro is crowded as that one rally
for sanity that turns otherwise.

Crictor knew best the way to freedom:
Please others
and their view of you turns sunny.

What is required,
what is preferred,
and what is essential
are all off
buying crack in the slums
of our wooden rollercoaster dreams.

If I die today
it would be less noted
than the merger of major energy providers
and while we’re on the subject
of prostitutes,
who isn’t?

Most people
are looking for a partner,
someone to get poor with,
someone they can hope dies
long after they do.

Most people are looking for a sense of permanence
and instead receiving a course
on managerial statistics,
free coffee and croissants,
chicken breast and rice pilafs.

We’re I’m going with all this
was going to be toward the center.

My cat aches and the river’s attune.

I don’t know what it says
about this state
that the liquor store opens at nine
and closes at eight.

I don’t know what it says
about my current state
of mind, the hour at which I show up
and that the Geoff working the counter
already has my order rang up
before I pass the security guard.

I don’t know what it says,
mommy, can you read it for me?

Crictor knew best
how to squelch the side affects.

Transgressions and transactions
have been recorded every morning
in which I manage to come to
for a couple of hours.
Free Scaloppini
gets regurgitated
into or around the toilet
and I am now amenable
to just about anything.
It is after three pee em
and after May as it is always
after May. I spit a poem or two
back into his navel
and onto his lint.
I’m trying to be
as open as possible,
which is always difficult
with those you claim to love. You should know
my parents have paid the back rent.
my cat curls up in the corner.
with a nail I’ve carved this poem
into the wall. There is still no time
for anything but more wine. I think
now his name is Leonard,
which was never really important
and despite a couple of decent dinners
I no longer care. It’d really be best
if someone would call Lambda. My water:

She’s broken.

Joseph Goosey lives in Southern Pines, North Carolina. He is a dropout of the MFA program at George Mason University and the author of four chapbooks.

Check out a few of his chapbooks here:
http://www.greybookpress.com/index.php/site/ind/joseph_gooseys_stupid_ache

http://virgograypress.net/2010/07/13/joseph-gooseys-mostly-spinach/

http://poptritus.blogspot.com/2008/12/chapbook-joseph-goosey-comfortable.html

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