Saturday, February 4, 2012

the party took a turn for the worse

the party took a turn for the worse
when the girls stopped talking
started cleaning the kitchen,
some of them crying
alone in different corners
then all together at the table
then alone again, each one
in the passenger seat
of a boyfriend's car.

out in the backyard:
gussied up girls
stood in soft grass
as boys sat on 
plastic buckets.
liquor stacked next
to the lawnmower,
crossed arms
unsure steps.
boys looked them up and down
then back up again with neither
an approving smile nor a

disapproving smirk.
the moon seemed a spotlight
shining its beam on a spot
where our swingset used to be
back when i was little
back when i hid in the bushes
back when i spied on parents
back when the porch hid
old tires and mosquitoes,
girls stood upstairs
at sliding glass doors

the moon seemed a coin
enough to buy a movie
or a ride to the beach.
boys hoping to fuck had no luck
so only traded apologies, not fluids.
everyone saying 'sorry'
between sniffles and
silent looks out windows,
driver waiting in his car
with his ten class rings.

no matter how much you have
there is always one drop left
either your own bottle
or somebody else's.
the backyard was deserted
when i went outside,
i saw the moon blink

it was then i knew it was not a spotlight
it was then i knew it was not a coin
it was then i knew it was an eye.

Chris Bullock

Born on Long Island, living in Denver.  Autoharp player, MS-DOS music conductor, found-object assembler, film photographer.  Poetry has a nasty way of letting you know, by consecutive failures, that you are horrible at almost everything (except poetry). Autoharp with MS-DOS & poetry:

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