I cobbled together a gigbook poem from last night on the town with my friend John Eiler. We were joined by my old road dog Lij (in transit from Door County, Wisconsin, back home to Nashville) and some nice guy from Washington, Missouri who reps pharmaceuticals and needed some drinking buddies while in town for a conference.
But I think this is all Eiler, or nearly so.
The topics: mostly love, with some mescal.
*
THIS IS TO FORGET
It was perpetuated to perpetuate
itself. It’s too stupid
to have been designed.
We’ve been eating your lunch
since 1986; so, it’s failed
five times. It’s not really
a battered kid shelter, but
when the shit hits the fan,
you’ve got to find a place
to stash your kids: we’ve got that.
I have back from Mexico for you.
I got his wife and his wine
cellar and his house
with a spiral staircase.
You’re my friend, buy me dinner.
Otherwise, I’ll room
with Andy Coin,
boring as dirt.
I want to cheat.
We split shit up.
Thank God for Kentucky plates.
By the way, she said, I’m sorry
I wrecked your car.
The GTO is all cracked up,
and she’s a lesbian on top of it.
Mexican guy with a body shop.
I start to play tennis with him.
Nice guy. Mescal
messes with me! Forget
everything: this is to forget.
I wound up owning his tools,
but he just ignored me
and ignored me
and ignored me.
Student of Schubert’s, radical
liberal Frenchman. There’s
a story here. That is, if you ever want to stay
with a concert pianist in Chicago. Olive
-skinned, longlimbed, blonde
girls with a burr haircut.
I brought them back
to our team. He graduated
at the bottom
of his class, outclassed me.
One of those ticktacky Pete
Seeger houses. Mimic
the color wheel, and I was a biker,
and she was a really, really
wonderful woman.
Carol didn’t have the balls
to tell me she was getting married
She still had her love
paintings for me, her declarations
of love in oil. And who am I?
I’m the sonofabitch who made your wife
happy! – an unbelievable, unbelievable
child.
A shotglass of that shit
in your teeth. I used to do
the physical therapy
in the monastery.
Hang a louie,
and hang a louie.
Kind of like the old adage
of “Don’t engage them,
They are only zombies
Looking for beer.”
itself. It’s too stupid
to have been designed.
We’ve been eating your lunch
since 1986; so, it’s failed
five times. It’s not really
a battered kid shelter, but
when the shit hits the fan,
you’ve got to find a place
to stash your kids: we’ve got that.
I have back from Mexico for you.
I got his wife and his wine
cellar and his house
with a spiral staircase.
You’re my friend, buy me dinner.
Otherwise, I’ll room
with Andy Coin,
boring as dirt.
I want to cheat.
We split shit up.
Thank God for Kentucky plates.
By the way, she said, I’m sorry
I wrecked your car.
The GTO is all cracked up,
and she’s a lesbian on top of it.
Mexican guy with a body shop.
I start to play tennis with him.
Nice guy. Mescal
messes with me! Forget
everything: this is to forget.
I wound up owning his tools,
but he just ignored me
and ignored me
and ignored me.
Student of Schubert’s, radical
liberal Frenchman. There’s
a story here. That is, if you ever want to stay
with a concert pianist in Chicago. Olive
-skinned, longlimbed, blonde
girls with a burr haircut.
I brought them back
to our team. He graduated
at the bottom
of his class, outclassed me.
One of those ticktacky Pete
Seeger houses. Mimic
the color wheel, and I was a biker,
and she was a really, really
wonderful woman.
Carol didn’t have the balls
to tell me she was getting married
She still had her love
paintings for me, her declarations
of love in oil. And who am I?
I’m the sonofabitch who made your wife
happy! – an unbelievable, unbelievable
child.
A shotglass of that shit
in your teeth. I used to do
the physical therapy
in the monastery.
Hang a louie,
and hang a louie.
Kind of like the old adage
of “Don’t engage them,
They are only zombies
Looking for beer.”
*
The photo is of John Eiler admiring the art of Michael Lynch.
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