When it comes to bowling, I have a signature move. It’s taking off a single bowling shoe and throwing it at the floor in frustration.
I haven’t been blogging. Have you noticed? And I wrote this poem in July of ‘09, back when I used to write poems.
“Down the Shameful Alley, and into the Wary Night”
Nick Drake soundtracked,
caffeine-free, Eve fever-ridden,
still and foreshadowing Armageddon;
that’s how I prefer my-
well, I like the uncertainty of the morning,
and bowling every evening with five
of the closest guys to me
with two strong fingers
and one helluva thumb each.
The morning of March 5, 1981,
I was canned from the tomato soup
after the boss’ graveyard shift
the nightly commute home
brought this admission:
“This time of night is for shadows
to take the form of motorcyclers,
sideways tomato soup cans
pumping brakes at hallucinations.”
One failed piss test
led to an afternoon of unrest,
soaking in syrupy red dreams.
during the bowling outing,
with five guys that could give
one terrifying thumbs up,
I applied to work at the alley.
And the bowling boy frowned
as I asked the Ten Pin Alley workers,
if they can still go on strike,
and if they do,
could it be misconstrued
as a positive to their bowling boss?
After, the guys think they tossed
my application in the gutter,
and I cut my losses,
calling my mother,
“Come pick me up at the alley.”