“six out of eight is pretty good, i think.”

Posted on January 7, 2012

3


This is a poem written about a long night of drinking at a lake house in Bloomington, Indiana. I woke up in the yard with early morning sun burning into my oily pores. I got up and stumbled to the deck to go inside when I missed a step, fell onto the deck and hit my head. I woke up a bit later and felt the bump on my head. When I raised up I saw Chickenhead, a good friend of mine passed out in a hammock. On top of his heads were the croquet balls I had carefully stacked the night before. Oh, the glory days of youth.

 

six out of eight is pretty good, I think

 

 

                twelve elfish toes of mine

                scrape shimmering stars

                of october dawn

 

                raking heavy

                        into the forehead-

                        a lake size bruise

 

 But-

                I have castrated the universe.

 Again.

 

                Six croquet balls

                Blue. Red. Green. Black.

                White and yellow.

 

Piled atop the broad shoulders of Atlas.

 

                He’s passed out

                & stupid beaten in a sagging, rotted hammock.

 

 

  Copyright 2000., Justin Kirby.

 

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Posted in: 1. Poems