Also by Mark Berriman:
Scar Lit
Brutally Frank
Kink in the Chain
That Turned Ugly Fast
Poems by
Mark Berriman
North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.
St. Cloud, Minnesota
Copyright © 2015 Mark Berriman
All rights reserved.
Print ISBN: 978-0-87839-815-7
eBook ISBN: 978-1-68201-009-9
First Edition: September 2015
Published by:
North Star Press
P.O. Box 451
St. Cloud, MN 56302
www.northstarpress.com
Contents
Foreword
Republicans Urinated in My Yard
Hiding from Harry Seekins
When They Put Me in the Morgue Drawer, Her Name Will Be on My Lips
Xcel Energy, Formerly Known as NSP
The Bookworm
The Crease Between Her Brows
Smothered
Gimme Gimme Gimme and the Me Toos
Mutiny
Those Right Said Fred Guys
Our Future Leaders
She Says
The Helpless Parent
The Well
Upstairs at Graceland
Angry Brigade
The Dance
The Man Who Kissed Hands
The Greenest Eyes
Child Number 4, Cherry on Top, Part 2
Putting Dots Together
Flew Too Close to the Sun
National Rifle Association
Beautimus
The Thing Out Back
Lost in Lights
Children of the Corn Syrup
Destruction Chorus
Robin Hood
Baby Teeth Are Sources of Stem Cells, Who Knew
The Bad Scene
The Longest Winter
Albert Dekker Was a Veteran Character Actor
Election Day
There Is Only Us
Clutter
Why Won’t She Just Collect Her Things and Leave?
Then the Puritans Sent Us to Helltown
Recovery Project
-15 Degrees
Jealous ’n’ Stuff
Bridget Bishop Bathrobe
We’ve Filled Wisconsin with Bad
Trying to Roll with It
More Than I Ever Could Have Wished For
Duck, Duck, Gray Duck and the Minnesota Middle Finger
I Am Erosion
The Confession
Foreword
Scott Wannberg’s North Country cousin puts his oar in and plays the burnt, sticky black keys, kicks open the rotten grey shutters to see who’s poaching on the other side of the poisoned well, who’s sifting through peoples’ garbage downtown, which witch forgot to drain the pipes before the big freeze, and who left the lights on in the root cellar. He burns the midnight oil to the last greasy drop, goes under the knife so we may understand precisely what kind of curiosity killed the cat that barked up the wrong tree and added insult to injury below the belt while sitting on the fence, recklessly takes the bull by the horns and demands clarification of events leading up to spilt milk, water under the bridge and fine kettles of fish, mapping forks in the road that whistle Dixie and blow away the cobwebs that mask the best thing since sliced bread jumped on the bandwagon with a sinking feeling and got cut off at the knees while counting chickens before the eggs were hatched, grinning like the shot fox that put those eggs in one basket, pretending to bend over backwards so the cat could get your tongue and hold your horses to better steal your thunder and beat around the bush. Berriman tirelessly takes it all with a grain of salt and hits the nail on the head like a whack-a-mole to prove that your guess is as good as mine.
–Viggo Mortensen
“All art is unstable.”
—David Bowie
Republicans Urinated in My Yard
The American people
have spoken
Shredding the constitution
they say
Lady Liberty
She’s come
She’s been
She’s gone
Republicans
urinated
in all four corners
of the yard
Hiding from Harry Seekins
He says he’s balls deep
in the devil and I
will not challenge
his claim
His eyes were open
but he wasn’t there
Seeking
Always seeking
Sticky residue
up and down arms
from nicotine patches
he wears
Three up
Three up
Three up
Three up at a time
He is the itch
as the methheads
scratch their scalps
down to the skull
His is Muhammad Ali’s
phantom punch
He is Foreman slow
and deliberate moving mountains
Dancing in the bone yard
He is the man in the bunny
suit waving from the side
of the road
Train cars full of would
have could have
should have trail behind
him on a leash
When They Put Me in the Morgue Drawer, Her Name Will Be on My Lips
She is sick
in the street again
Kneeling before
store front churches
vacant juke joints
No one is keeping
score anymore
She drained all my fluids
with her twin cities kisses
She was kind
enough to leave
a note
Medicine shows
with midways as long
as city blocks
I told her not to
buy it
but she bought it
She let go
of the edges
Stopped reaching
for safety of sidelines
She stopped
worrying about fitting in
Sun shining through
dense trees
Knee-high socks
her braids swing
She explored patches
of woods to find
the best ferns
Heart-shaped leaves
Xcel Energy, Formerly Known as NSP
When you register
to vote
in Minnesota
you must
provide a picture ID
or driver’s license
and a utility bill
showing current address
This year
my bill was a disconnection
notice from Xcel Energy
Fitting, somehow
The Bookworm
Applause welcomes her
as she arrives, again
She always thinks
that way
Her internal soundtrack
Applause wrestles aside
The Mission Impossible theme song
The Peter Gunn theme
A Shot in the Dark
John Zorn’s saxophone
spitting sparks
The applause
An ordinary day began
with an ordinary morning
grappling into long shadows
of an early afternoon
Whispers break
her soundtrack into pieces
as she passes
the girls
with their long painted nails
Snapping their pink
gum behind
blackened teeth
The girls who were smoking
Newports in the back
alley where you can
barely hear
yourself over
the sound
of the fans
whirring away
Throwing out
heat and exhaust
that smells like the bad
end of a bad day
They call her
“Bookworm”
behind her
back she knows
but she is fine
with that
There was a time
when all she thought
of was a dissecting pan
filled with black wax
A worm stretched apart
open with pins
Scalpel
Forceps
Probe & Seeker
The smell of formaldehyde
and Mrs. Knoepfel
barking instructions
to cut the clitellum
without damaging
the dorsal blood vessel
the central
nerve cord
She stops
at the globe
sitting upon its clear
plexiglass stand
She touches the Pacific
and turns it
ever so slightly
with fingers deep
in the blue you only find
on old postcards
from exotic places
And globes
A polished penny
on the floor catches
her eye looks
like its straight
out of Frisco
or Philly
Freshly minted
She picks it up
and puts the coin
in her faded black jeans
to join its sisters
in her pocket
Jingling and jangling
to her rhythmic strut
She removes
her coat with maps
of the Old World
and the New York
subway system
sewn into its interior
Eurasia
Crosstown Line
Africa
Nassau Street Line
She approaches
the table
The wood spread
out before her
Knot upon glorious
knot with a grain
put there
by god
She spreads
the slender volumes
Collected works
Selected works
Her father told her
its not safe
to consort
with poets
They are a dangerous sort
with heads in clouds
Dreamers
Unpractical grammar slayers
Idealists
These descendents
of Odin and Saga are not
to be trusted
But her fingertips
calloused and rough
from yellowed pages
cannot resist
their pull
Some days she just needs
to sit
She needs
to read
She needs
to think
She needs
to not think
She needs
to escape
Depart
through
the pages
put there
by poets
The Crease Between Her Brows
I can see the line
of her jaw
The soft creases
in her skin
when she smiles
The crease between
her brows
I tell her
“don’t do that”
She can’t
help it
The fine gray hairs
you have to get
real close
to see
I have been real
close to see
That spot
on the back
of her neck
The small
of her back
Her hips when I pull
her close to me
His autumn
lust crushed
by snowy flakes
of winter’s hello
Gimme Gimme Gimme and the Me Toos
They will lift
your shutters an inch
at a time
Our American dream
They will shut
the shutters
on your yesterdays
on your tomorrows
If you’re born poor
chances are (sing it)
you’re going
to remain poor
Hereditary rule
Sent by the hand
of god
to rule over us
Bush
Clinton
Walton
Koch
The economy stagnates
Life gets harder
People get meaner
And their pockets grow deeper
Our search
for social justice
Our search
for common good
has been handicapped
Our community needs
healing
restoration
My needs your needs
and the needs of our community
We should flourish together
we don’t
We move through
a fear-based world
Protecting ourselves
Protecting our children
from the “unknowns”
But we know
the gimme gimme gimme
and the me toos
Mutiny
I’ve got your mutiny,
right here.
Those Right Said Fred Guys
Unspoken chorus of concern
Ticker tape parades
Mid-westerners
and their passive aggressive guilt
Bloody carpets
Trailer park tattoos
Wired and well connected
but I lost what I had invested
All the clever kids
Bored
Kicking
their bass drums
And those Right Said Fred guys
beat their bare chests
&
nbsp; and laugh
at our habits
The cooks
cook
The makers
make
And god willing
the thinkers will
think
of a way to finally save us
Our Future Leaders
Once upon a time we found
shortcuts our parents knew
nothing about
We took pride
in knowing how
to get places
Now we don’t
allow our children
to cross streets
We are born
with the need
to do great things
Our play dates
were not arranged
Play-date?
What the hell
is a play date?
Our younger selves would have asked
We built bridges
from planks laid
across the creek
We were expected
to show
up for dinner
Generation Pussy
Sunscreen
Paper cuts
The way you coddle
Bike Helmets
Pain Reliever