faked by Thursday, April 21st, 2011

The fat man on teevee says
let’s go walking, Mississippi.
But he talks like
he’s got biscuits in his mouth,
and so it sounds like
Leff go woggin Mizzibbi.

He doesn’t look like he goes
walking very much. Once I saw him
through the smoked glass of a
gray Tahoe, his dough-colored face
twisted and angry, yelling at
a man as fat as him, but
with a baby face, with
too-tiny librarian glasses jammed down
on his ruddy cheeks.

Baby Huey, my dad would have called him,
which makes me laugh, even as I sneeze,
walking on this fine spring day,
I don’t go woggin much myself
yet something yanked me out today,
made me dig through
bottom drawers in search of mesh shorts
and a ripped Bama tank top.
It’s all pretty embarrassing.

I’m sneezing so hard my ears ring, mashing
on my iPod to get it off this Hole
song, why the fuck do I have any Hole songs.
Where did that even come from.
Even if it’s “Awful,” which I kind of love.

Woggin, woggin, knee poppin
Don’t want to have a mean old Baby Huey face
like the fat man on the teevee.

Suddenly this lovely thick perfume wafts
over me, there’s a break between songs &
the honeysuckle is in full bloom, and I
think of me and my sister back in Sandusky
running through the woods in the backyard
and trying to get the most out of
each honeysuckle, those two or
three precious drops of
nectar, little red-haired bees,
freckled buzzy baby bees
running around in the pine straw and the kudzu,
chubby Leia and Luke in our own private Endor.

We had a Honda 50 that was better than any
speeder bike. We buried a buffalo nickel beneath a
rotted log and called it pirate treasure. This was
quite a long time ago, when we were very young.

The Beatles warble in on my little reverie.
“A Day in the Life,” but from underwater, an early
version scraped from somewhere on the internet, probably
Captains Dead or You Aint No Picasso.
The Kinfauns demos they call them,
although I can’t recall why,
I don’t try as hard to remember any more.

Now there’s another fat man walking towards me, immense
like a giant in a fairy tale, mouth pursed in an
O, thick red gloves on each hand, the kind with
weights jammed in them, to make you
healthier, he’s walking fast and he waves at me
with a giant red paw, we are just two
dudes out woggin, gettin healthie, trying to fight back our
natural inclinations, which is to sit in the sweet a/c and
watch the Twin Peaks movie on YouTube.
Okay that’s my natural inclination. God—

Jesus Mary Mother

sometimes I hate the Shuffle on this damned thing,
what goddamned algorithm says follow up
the Beatles with the fucking
Anti-Nowhere League screaming
“So What?”
Actually Hole to the Beatles to Anti-Nowhere League
is just pathetic. That makes no sense at all. Hole to
Beatles bootleg. Eight gigs of Cupertino plastic and it’s
all rigged against me. I’d rather have a Walkman and
know what was coming up next, yes these are nominally
my songs but not like how it used to be when my
“library” was sixteen cassette tapes in a Converse
shoe box on the nightstand, two of those Robert Johnson
collections. I did not make myself go walking then.
I did not have to have a fat rich man on teevee
tell me to go walking then.

My back hurts. My left knee keeps popping. I smeared
sweat all over my eight gigs of Cupertino plastic, which
probably doesn’t hurt it but always stresses me out.
(If it died I wouldn’t know what to do, those poor souls
with status updates of “library crashed, haven’t backed up
since ’07,” and all the comments are like “dude need a
DISLIKE button so hard” etcetera etc. &tc.)

I am sick of woggin.
I want some Pizza Shack.
Fuck that, I just want cheese sticks from Pizza Shack,
forget the pizza, I just want bread and cheese and
But that’s why I have to go woggin.
Looks like rain.
Cupertino plays me a twelve second clip
from the Simpsons, Dr. Frink squawking about
math, filler for mixtapes I quit making
a decade ago. This is the
worst walk ever, at least I’m almost home.
Wow, twenty-eight minutes, I’m
Arnold in Hercules in New York.
I’m Mark Ingram, I’m
Johnny Musso.

I catch a glimmer of perfume again, and
look at the honeysuckle.
I don’t go get one, I don’t try to
get three drops out of it,
I go up the stairs to my
apartment and stand at my kitchen counter
and eat a sandwich with vegan baloney and
turn on the fan and the a/c and
lay on top of the covers.

I flip through some Shelby Foote and
feel guilty.

My knee is pulsing like a turn signal, blinking
in the night.

I forget to plug my phone in and sometime
in the night it dies, and I oversleep
the next morning.

3 Responses to “BIPEDAL”

  1. Alex V. Cook says:

    This is my favorite poem of all National Poetry Month

    especially “two dudes woggin” and “We buried a buffalo nickel beneath a/rotted log and called it pirate treasure.”

  2. Spencer Carnage says:

    Twin Peaks and vegan baloney. I love this post.

  3. Andi says:

    I love this! And I too lament that the Ipod is nothing like a mixtape.