Two Poems by Mike Sammons as left on my voicemail on consecutive Sunday mornings.
I Fell Down
After a long -- very long night
of drinking bourbon and beer,
I came to my door and immediately
fell down at the first step.
These are the days I instantly remember:
God is a bird caught close between the legs;
winter winds round me like a [sick date]
coughing some madness in the nice air.
Trees dance the polka unrestrained
by my methods; some mother
sleeps sound in her bed.
Cigarettes last on my fingers
like gods…of strife.
Run your fingers down your thighs,
take them down your own legs
to your feet: you are a god of lust
and of all things lusty.
I love you like a shooting star
all above me; I lie on a trampoline
making my mistakes the way
we [warn some kids about lies]
and yet fails
on the white gates of Montrose.
Actually they don’t come in like wolves,
they come in more like enormous and pointless mannequins
on the lunchtime crowd of miscreants.
Cubicles disperse and weep;
taxis scream without screaming;
the boss stands like a moron waiting
for something that won’t come,
won’t become itself.
There is a man with his wife and his child,
a young boy with big lips and black skin,
and the mother keeps spying all over him
and thinks [he’s a genius or more]
and waits for her meal and ponders
some things I don’t even think about.
The dad’s face shows a jumble of ears
and doesn’t smile or move at all.
I see a doomed corpse in us all:
the father is doomed to at least fourteen years;
the mother is doomed to at least fourteen years;
the earth belches magnetic revelations in kind.
A bad haircut can ruin your life;
a parking ticket can send you to jail,
sitting wildly with the animals
who don’t shout and also don’t front.
Innocence abounds in the accused like a plague:
the dog barking is doomed to fate;
the birds fly like an idiot also.
Where does that end or begin:
yourself, your own child, a rogue,
an entire imbecile.
[Just to reassure] our kids, more
morons than we,
I open the bottle with a tool,
and sink my lips over the same glass mouth
till the draining, delving mind
sinks itself into the start which [is hard.]
The winds will find themselves virgin,
and the sky will mask itself like an owl.
I stand thinking “no, this is not my life,
this is not the life I wanted, this is just
not my life.”
Some are doomed to dust, others are doomed
to lust and to other things. Some are doomed
to happiness and comedy.
I will stay with the doomed of the doomed.