Poetry By
Tom Gunn
Published on: 10/23/2013
Tom Gunn Breaks the News to His Dying Father That He Is Not A Homosexual
Chapter I Every night he sings "Feed the Birds" from the film Mary Poppins to convince his infant son that the day is over and that it is safe to go to sleep. F. Scott Fitzgerald died of a heart attack at the age of forty-four while trying to make it as a screenwriter: Gatsby, forgotten. God listens to the prayers of his children through a one-way intercom taking careful notes, but cannot respond. A small bag of Cheetos has 21 grams of fat. He's only ever been friends with people who hate everything about him. God has a body of flesh and bones as tangible as man's. Chapter II His first words were a lost haiku by Ernest Hemingway. In a fit of rowdy play as a child, he tripped a girl who broke her leg. She never knew who it was because he never took responsibility. He enjoys twisting and pulling out the hairs of his head. Chapter III He works and plays alone, standing at a second-hand Ikea desk made of metal and particle board mounted on four cinder blocks. Those who suffer from non-verbal learning disability often struggle to focus when confronted with numbers or leaves of paper or are asked to complete a task under a ticking clock. Riding the bus on the first leg of his daily commute, he writes a novel by hand using a Cross ballpoint pen he's owned for five years—losing it, finding it—one page per trip . . .
Published on: 10/18/2013
Teacups
Wait and listen to that song Sunscreen, scrunchie, fanny pack Does it drive them all insane? Iron, mushroom, storybook Take the fastest spinning cup Play-dough, crayons, apple sauce Bring your playmate. Tag, you're it Purple maelstrom, pizza dough Spin the sun and time away Plastic straw, captivity Ninety seconds: laughter, puke Manners, madness, misery Night falls under sleeping tree Paper lantern, lightning bug Hand-in-hand, stumble home Twilight, popcorn, cinnamon You've been drunk in drunken tea Swing the gate, hurry on!
|