Two Poems

Hawkwind

You know, I spent a year sleeping
in a bed that looked like Hugh Hefner’s
red velvet life raft. I made incursions
into underneath the bed with a Swiffer
and the broom, but I never made it into
the interior of under-the-bed because it was
too heavy to move. My friend’s father
was promoted to General for repulsing
incursions by Boko Haram. I offered
to mail a copy of my essay collection to someone
named Grace and she said she didn’t want it.
I don’t want to have children; on the other
hand, I’m bitter that it took me so long
to hear the band Hawkwind. I lived
fully half of a life never having heard Hawkwind.
Similarly, it’s almost always so strange
that you’re not here anymore.

I Was Once Given

the opportunity to slaughter
a lamb in Central Africa; I
demurred, said I wouldn’t even
know where to begin. I like
lamb, with its weird way of going
so well with things like mint, mustard
seed. I’ve been to Binghamton, New York,
but I don’t really want to talk about that. I
still have no idea how Europeans drink
until six in the morning; to be frank,
I don’t ever see myself seeing Fiji.

My stomach’s starting to hurt a lot,
and my glasses almost don’t work.
To be frank, I don’t think I’ll ever be able
to help anyone at all in Darfur.