Poems by Daniel Myers
death
is like trying to remember the feeling of being in love or trying to think of an elephant - keeping it delicately in mind spins down to the ham-fisted,
a long-winded answer to a forgotten question
I spent a few afternoons with an old roughneck electrician who saved an oil drilling platform from exploding and never got a thank you
We sat among his thrumming magnolia wallpaper and drank instant coffee
thank you thank you thank you
I smell the incense and hear the priests, at the healthy flow of wakes
the red velvet soaked in my nose - the dignified uncles in sweet suits
flailing with loving words at jesus' feet, and drafting an email to god
to get some guidance on what the deal will be for my dog
I don't fear it, but I'm embarrassed when I think of it, like remembering a
crusty plate perched on the sink
still hoping to get the package where I'm eaten alive by ravens, I guess
sex
is someone singing happy birthday to you
while you try to think of an elegant way to thank them
money
is a parlor trick until you're chainsmoking as you wait for the baby to arrive
buying one dollar beers for old spectral friends in the hopes that they'll make you a partner in their new onion-growing venture
so that you can buy medicine for your girlfriend and the leather shoes
you feel you need for the wedding
the first light of morning and the pit of the dark of night
the killer of smalltalk and the louchest of smiles
holier than almighty god and spiced rum
nuance
leads you to sitting across the table from yourself
while the food's still hot, and the conversation is finished
"well, it's a spectrum, it's a balance, it depends on the context"
gulping down your claret to work up the courage to really say you believe in something, like hating australians or enjoying butterscotch
I'm so tired of nuance, but it's not done with me
it's a piety, an ironic scab to avoid looking yourself in the eye
short friendships
in the sticky den of a moving car
with you and i packed to other things tomorrow
we knew each other like a shortcut home
a standout paragraph in your favorite chapter
an andre 3000 verse in the smoothest song
if we had from here to be family
i'm not sure it would smell the same
but in the dry sigh of the potholed afternoon
i for you was enough
emptiness
brushes my hair from my eyes
and kisses your forehead
while your story falls apart under scrutiny
and the rhythm of people devolves into improv
dance hives
runs to nowhere
45 minutes in a pottery store with no purchase in sight
and not having the energy to explain where you're going
productivity
the 10 hours when I try to string it together
the phone calls and memos and passionate pleas
the cajoling and hoping and self-exhortations
the projects and time well spent and the withered afternoons
while nuance sinks its teeth in my shoulder and makes me ask
what I can tell the people I love on my birthday
about how I can help people, why I am good
self-care
means not helping anyone, and being a bad person
resting in numbness while the mongers of obligation
huddle quietly outside your kitchen door
like the silent pagans in limbo
We should whip ourselves into a froth of entanglement
and dependence and disappointment and relief and laughter and injury
because we ourselves really aren't enough
foreignness what's that thing in math when the boomerang line can approach the x axis but never quite touch it
laughter
is a series of splitting and combining cells
bringing two together and pushing others' lawn chairs away
from the campfire
smoke stringed in the giggles and guffaws
more tender than kissing
regret
you couldn't have known
Commenti