tell me more, tell me more, the musical didn’t get very far, first act, april, 1988, and i’m a freshman in high school, managed to avoid the senior crazies all year, the guys who threw all the parties, got into all the fights, the ones teachers feared, they are close to graduating, but not without one final senior prank, and this is where i come in, me and hundreds of other students watching grease, i don’t see the eight guys in the darkened auditorium, each with a sack of 50 mice, all 400 bought over several days before, details that come out later, the crazies release the rodents while danny zuko is crooning summer fling, don’t mean a thing, then that high pitch animal squeak screeches out from under every seat, an unnatural infestation, the screams begin, kids jump on seats, some run for the aisle, pure chaos, like the barf-o-rama scene in stand by me, i walk quickly to the exit, when i see slow-footed chris hagan, all 260-pounds of him laboring to get out too, i didn’t see the body of the crushed mouse under his reebok high tops, just splashes of scarlet blood splattered on his sneaker, for a second i lock eyes with chris, he’s visibly shaking, his jowls quivering, probably had never killed anything before in his life, a minute later i’m out of the theater, suddenly sad on a warm spring day.
Mexican Resort During Christmas
in the pool, they are tan with a cocktail in hand, the buzzed on winter vacation drink corona, tecate, modelo, cold cans and bottles reflect sun-drenched bodies, dipping tortilla chips in guacamole, pacific ocean december sunsets and gracias por la cerveza, bartenders wear red & white hats, but i can’t imagine santa visiting here, where footballs splash near plastic margarita glasses, and waiters wear fake smiles while working christmas eve, i try to find the deeper meaning in this alcohol and chlorine, relaxation, i suppose, but all i see is vapid sunshine, starlight without a soul.
After The Flip Phone
they radiate warmth, glow with a touch
they wake us up, send notifications, control calendars
they provide direction, share terrible text news
they are anxiety when lost
they are nothing, contain everything
they are addiction, mandatory for work
they are constantly held, gripped, stared at
they are photos, & more photos, preserving memory
they are low wage labor, somewhere in china
they are steve jobs, apple salaries supported
they are planned obsolescence, always updating
they are our servants, who we serve
Before & Now
i could try to put
all the words back together
months and years of poems
those fragments, pieces of bone
structure of love, my body
of work, endless expression
of our boundless truth
when we were both
younger, before
but now
only this
Gen X Listens To Chappell Roan
good luck, babe, progeny of tori amos & kate bush, the 1980’s, their “tell” -stratified debris of an earlier generation of people- now buried under chappell roan’s civilization, and so it goes, guthrie gave way to dylan, madonna to gaga, dicaprio to chalamet, not to say tori and kate are gone, but they are, & one day roan will disappear too, obvious, the young push out the old, why does this matter? because we all hold too tightly, grip less firmly, because, in the words of sufjan stevens, all things go
Seeing Kris Jenner In Capri
warm italian day, capri, summer island, boutique windows reflect back tanned skin and dripping gelato, inside -crimson coral gold rings, linen fabric folded, draped, elegant, expensive, clothes no one wears except on yachts in mediterranean opulence, then there is Kris Jenner, like a native, she belongs on the other side of the glass, her bodyguard in black t-shirt hovering nearby, no one notices, until they do, they, meaning my wife, a quick elbow to my ribs, that’s Kris Jenner, and I should care because I know Khloe, Kim, Scott, versed in keeping up with flat screened family drama, but i’m sweating, ready to sit poolside back at the hotel, yet she, my wife, is feigning interest in the shop where Kris is trying on jewelry, enters to browse, to linger near, and why? as if some scent of fame might rub off on her, as if she really wants that cloistered, sunglasses, hat-wearing life, this goes on for several minutes, until finally, like a hunter, my wife gives up, leaves the tracking of prey to others, who now notice, stare, elbow their partners, as I walk away I can only imagine how this will go on and on, from store to store, as Kris ignores the tourists, buying everything under the sun.
Stream #3 or Borrowed
for some of you
know my method
my way of writing
is to take a line from
something i just read
for some of you
borrowed, now mine
how precious to
hold and do differently
this life, better than
the one before
and we all have had
a life
before, especially the
buddhists, hindus, and
believers in more than
football, beer
and sephora, the
surface shimmers, glimmers
with hope that the
veneer is real, but
for some of you
meaning, me, it is
thin ice
and i’ve already broken
through
into the cold water
Stream #2 or Artificial Intelligence
they told me long ago
we must keep up with the joneses
and so we lost our horse
bought a car, a fridge
a tv, a microwave, a personal
computer, an answering machine
cellphone, email, you get the
idea, now A.I., euphemism
for ending humanity, too strong?
no, not really, and again they
say it is inevitable, you must
learn to live with the robots
because the waymos are
here, they aren’t going away
because someone, somewhere
is making too much money to
slow it down, so we teach our
children how to write papers with
machines doing the the work, because
well, this is the future, post-writing
when whatever we people think
doesn’t really matter, only the algorithm
knows, it knows where we go
what we watch, when we sleep
it predicts our next purchase, predicts
the future, is the future, resist
whatever that means
Stream #1
what i should do
is not hesitate
like in the past
go boldly into
this blue ink
nothing, it is
everything, but
only for me
in this second
i try to tell the truth
and nothing but
what i’ve learned on tv
those sitcoms like
three’s company
and imagine
that all of life could
be the regal beagle
a stage set in
the 80’s, and yet
this goes on, we call
it netflix, my old
nemesis, my old
friend, what i should do
i don’t, the humans
make mistakes
the revolution
will be televised
but there will
never be a
revolution
Happy New Year’s!
Daniel W. Polk 