Adam Shlager
3 poems
**
punk ass narrative
I wouldn’t want a long ride in a short car
baseball cap pulled down too low over my can’t-see-shit eyes
some long-toothed white rabbit riding shotgun
looking for meaning so he can avoid the avoidable
and listen to his favorite CD
set to repeat and random
so even though I always know what’s coming
I never know what’s next
we’re spooning in the backseat of America
but not with each other because we haven’t met
and we don’t know how the plan is supposed to work like an Escher drawing
or the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel
where we prayed for some end we couldn’t see
and didn’t want desperately enough for my mother
and your mother who bought us goldfish and
said “this will teach you responsibility” as though that
were the key to start the car and begin the journey.
**
ignis fatuus
the alarm’s profound lament
wakes me to the gloaming where
a single drop of rain shatters
at the start of an apocalypse
the fortune teller’s tarot forgot to mention
that on the hammer and anvil of conscience
I control portent outside the
internal combustion pith and fiction of myself
I am colorblind in this place
I see only in spine and seconds slipping
through dust filtered by the beaded
yarrow curtain of your hair
peer, eyes narrow, and see ancestors
notched at the crook of time and place
panic, look for the degree of my
own incision
this, the cacophony between awake and
dead is what I am, somewhere between
dust and never, and I see now
that when I am past this déjà vu
the shards of my crystal ball tongue will
be swept into a corner
along with a dead mouse
that didn’t see it coming
**
blind date
the lion wears white in winter
and death’s mother wears whatever she wants
when I met her, she was wearing a murder
of barking crows in a dark, empty tunnel
we smiled, hugged awkwardly
strolled by the dim light of genius
she spoke softly about her son
always saw him as a teacher
he was resolute from youth
there was growth potential in death
she sighs, shakes her head
the crows subside, spread their wings
she is white and hot and close now
the crows fold us into one desperately complicit
argument and after
when we are breathlessly in agreement
I wonder if she will keep my number
if she will call, if I will meet her son, if he will like me
**
return to sawbuck 4.2
**
Adam Shlager works in New England as a slightly distracted consultant for the healthcare industry. He writes much of his poetry on his 2+ hour daily commute and wrangles with words and meaning in the venerable City Hall Poets Workshop. His work may also be seen in upcoming issues of ken*again and Omphalos 10. When not writing poetry or advising someone about the current or future state of healthcare, Adam spends time with his daughter and wife, who are teaching him how to enjoy life and laugh. He can't wait to see what happens next.
**
punk ass narrative
I wouldn’t want a long ride in a short car
baseball cap pulled down too low over my can’t-see-shit eyes
some long-toothed white rabbit riding shotgun
looking for meaning so he can avoid the avoidable
and listen to his favorite CD
set to repeat and random
so even though I always know what’s coming
I never know what’s next
we’re spooning in the backseat of America
but not with each other because we haven’t met
and we don’t know how the plan is supposed to work like an Escher drawing
or the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel
where we prayed for some end we couldn’t see
and didn’t want desperately enough for my mother
and your mother who bought us goldfish and
said “this will teach you responsibility” as though that
were the key to start the car and begin the journey.
**
ignis fatuus
the alarm’s profound lament
wakes me to the gloaming where
a single drop of rain shatters
at the start of an apocalypse
the fortune teller’s tarot forgot to mention
that on the hammer and anvil of conscience
I control portent outside the
internal combustion pith and fiction of myself
I am colorblind in this place
I see only in spine and seconds slipping
through dust filtered by the beaded
yarrow curtain of your hair
peer, eyes narrow, and see ancestors
notched at the crook of time and place
panic, look for the degree of my
own incision
this, the cacophony between awake and
dead is what I am, somewhere between
dust and never, and I see now
that when I am past this déjà vu
the shards of my crystal ball tongue will
be swept into a corner
along with a dead mouse
that didn’t see it coming
**
blind date
the lion wears white in winter
and death’s mother wears whatever she wants
when I met her, she was wearing a murder
of barking crows in a dark, empty tunnel
we smiled, hugged awkwardly
strolled by the dim light of genius
she spoke softly about her son
always saw him as a teacher
he was resolute from youth
there was growth potential in death
she sighs, shakes her head
the crows subside, spread their wings
she is white and hot and close now
the crows fold us into one desperately complicit
argument and after
when we are breathlessly in agreement
I wonder if she will keep my number
if she will call, if I will meet her son, if he will like me
**
return to sawbuck 4.2
**
Adam Shlager works in New England as a slightly distracted consultant for the healthcare industry. He writes much of his poetry on his 2+ hour daily commute and wrangles with words and meaning in the venerable City Hall Poets Workshop. His work may also be seen in upcoming issues of ken*again and Omphalos 10. When not writing poetry or advising someone about the current or future state of healthcare, Adam spends time with his daughter and wife, who are teaching him how to enjoy life and laugh. He can't wait to see what happens next.
Labels: 4.2, adam shlager, summer 2010
