top of page

"blake's opinions over his digestif (strega)", "in the men's room"...by Adam Johnson

blake's opinions over his digestif (strega)


they were sitting around after dinner

his daughter told him that none of the girls

in her class liked her

she said they said

we don't want to be friends with you

like they had all conspired around it

it was the same thing

that happened to him back in 1997


he told his daughter to hang in there

it gets better

they don't know what they're talking about

"they don't know themselves."

"they are upset about their own failures!"


she shrugged her shoulders

she said okay dad

she was tough as nails

she had mettle, at seven

she could teach him a thing or two

he realized



in the men's room


i am looking down

there is fresh ice in the urinal

15 seconds elapse

i am staring into a mirror now

the sink is on

it is an abyss

this is it

the men's room door opens

it is time

we scream into a private stall

latch, hook

fumbling, bic fuse

glowing rock

red-eyed release

score junkies in hushed light



November 15, 2009


tonight my son is laying on my wife

in the living room

it's tender


he asks where do you go when you die


she says heaven


he says I'm going to hold your hand when you die mommy so we can go to the same place


you see, we are not lone pebbles



the tree


fighting inside

craziness

madness

murder

tits out

dick out

a storm

death threats

wine shrieks and

drywall holes

neighbors blinking their lights

like they'll call the cops

and after the fight

i step over the broken plates

and the busted-out fish tank

the one that was overturned

in a different fight last week

i step over the fish bodies

i go to the bottom of the stairs

my old lady is up there, ranting

packing, breaking, cursing, pitching a fit

yelling divorce at the

tops of her lungs

yelling lawyer this and that

yelling "you'll see"

bitching about affidavits

and pictures of bruising

broken phones, broken lives

all that bullshit

thank christ we don't have kids

thank christ we're getting divorced

i go over to the window at the

back of the kitchen

i raise the sash

and light up a square

i look up into the trees out back

and search the sky

for answers

but i don’t find any

instead i see a man

up in one of the white pines

naked under a moon beam

he sees me see him

and leaps down

and runs down the alley

so i go to the fridge

and grab a coors light

i take a long drag off it

then i go back to the window

and finish the beer

then i go back to the fridge

for another beer

then i go out to the garage

and retrieve the stepladder

i climb up and get his clothes

out of the tree

a tee shirt and tommy hilfiger jeans

no wallet/no id

just his clothes and his size

10 shoes on the ground

an old pair of k swisses

a little bit of trampled down grass

i pick up the artifacts and

i go back inside

scruffing along

the burnt vapors of domestic hell

clinging to the scattered ether

i can still hear her up there

thundering in her whisky tenor

the stomps and rumblings of

a broken woman

but cooling off, i know her

it's all my fault

i grab a fresh bottle of

screw-top white and two plastic cups

i ascend the stairs to the horns of hell

she's calmed down

i can tell she's ready to make up

she wants wine

i pour out two cups worth

we sit on the bed

she half-packed a bag

she gets up and throws it into a corner

we both gulp wine

it is thursday, 8:20

tomorrow i'll put the stranger's clothes

in our recycling bin

they'll help suppress the crash of bottles

on pick-up day

on fridays our recycling bin

releases a vineyard of empties

this is our life



i still can't spell massachusettes


walking through the wan light of

dawn field sun crack cloud streak,

mugged coffee,

fighting autumnal flashbangs tossed

by Nature (hell's pixies, dig)

imposing of long cello sobs into

mind matter (presence)

scents of life, soil sacks and such

uprooted moss glimmerings, illusory

flicker memories that scratch with each step

this is the field that once was

there are dead dirt piles living here

worm screams underfoot, tread heavy, muck, dying

six-feet downers

plowed, walked upon, earthed

you know me




Adam Johnson lives in Minnesota. His forthcoming poetry collection, What Are You Doing Out Here Alone, Away From Everyone? will be released through HASH Press in December, 2021.


Comments


bottom of page