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

Posted on January 7, 2012


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



                I have castrated the universe.



                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.


Posted in: 1. Poems