Friday, July 21, 2006

I Am The Master of My Own Undoing


Maybe the man has to gut a fish. Maybe
that's why he's got a knife. If he likes
the heft of it in his hand, what's that matter?

I mean, he's got to eat.


Gilbert's guy was talking to God as he gutted,
as he fried onions in hot olive oil,
tossed in peppers.

As a bird flew between him and the sun.


God being all buddy-buddy.

Gilbert petulant, a little bit


Well, the big guy's never
spoken to me. His kid showed up
once in the backyard at a crab boil
with Lineberger, but that was
a long time ago.


I've been drinking a gin infused
with cucumber and rose. A woman's
drink if ever I've tasted one.

I crave a cigar.


The other thing is I'll fight you

My trainer says I got no
defense but I won't
stop coming.

Eventually you'll get wore down
from punching my melon and then
we'll see what's what.


Inside of my body I carry
all the bodies of the awful
dead whose faces I can't
shut out.


That's a lie.

That's a goddamn lie.



Anonymous Anonymous said...

well, looky here, the man wrote a poem. scott, this is really terrific. i want to pile on some adjectives here. but hemingway said it better than all that. the real gen, he said. that's it, the real gen.

3:47 AM  
Blogger deirdre said...

I love when a poem ends in a lie that is the goddam truth and god is all buddy-buddy in the middle & it starts w/ some guy gutting a fish.

Plus you even got Lineberger in there!

This is a total winner, I might say real gen, except I don't know what gen means.

the leaps are everything!

Love it yes I do.

7:41 AM  
Blogger tearful dishwasher said...


Well, you're too generous. But I'm grateful. I'd like to return the favor some day, so go put yr blog up again. It's bad enough drinking a woman's gin, but not to have an edge of grimpen or a whatever you want to call it to go have a beer in, well, sir, it's just too damn much.


Thanks! And thanks for hanging around here, classing the place up a bit.



8:20 AM  
Blogger sam of the ten thousand things said...

I like the opening here a lot. And the progression (or actually it's more like implosion) of the poem. Wonderful lines:

Inside of my body I carry
all the bodies of the awful
dead whose faces I can't
shut out.

Good piece.

3:30 PM  

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