LATE AT NIGHT
a collection of poems by Max Kerwien
Copyright 2017 Max Kerwien
max@kerwien.com
To Teachers
INTRODUCTION
In 2009 I was fourteen and I thought poetry was dumb. In 2016 I graduated from the University of Washington with a Bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing and a love for poetry. This book is dedicated to teachers, professors, and anybody else who has stood by a chalkboard in a classroom and talked about a poem to a group of students. You may not have reached everyone in the room, but you reached me.
This is a collection of poems from someone who recently found poetry. This is also a collection for those who don’t believe in a bedtime; people who find their most philosophical moments at too late in the night, who have those hysterical 3 am laughs and feel the tired joy and love of the earth and everyone around them. This is a collection for all the things that come from a brain and body that needs rest but chooses anything else; anything at all.
LATE AT NIGHT 1
INTRODUCTION 4
FALLING ASLEEP ON MY KEYBOARD 6
2016, SO FAR 7
EATING OUT 10
FATHERHOOD 12
LAUGHTER 13
COOK 14
SHARPENED 15
IT MUST HAVE A TITLE 16
ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE 18
ALL ABOUT HOMONYMS 21
ROAD TRIP 23
WRITER’S BLOCK 28
FALLING ASLEEP ON MY KEYBOARD
Ngjbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb
2016, SO FAR
I'm at the dentist, getting my wisdom teeth
Plucked, and the song
"I can't feel my face when I'm with you"
Comes on.
I'm watching the Republican debates
And Comedy Central Roasts, to compare.
I'm praying to God,
Asking for him to wave his wand
And magic my atheism and my problems
Away, away, away.
I turn 22.
Taylor Swift becomes
My spirit animal.
"Everything will be alright,
If we just keep dancing
Like we're 22."
I'm driving and surfing tinder:
Left, right, left on Brooklyn,
Right on Brooke, left on Macie,
left on Martin Luther, right on Stacy,
Looking for some matches, maybe.
Hey, it's Valentines day!
I raid Rite Aid for hearts
And arts and crafts and cards,
And throw glitter and canned love
above my head and into the aisles,
Yelling, "Love is in the air!"
The pharmacy sky becomes sprinkles
And swallows all the fucks I give.
I started keeping a money jar,
And every time someone says
"that's offensive," I put a nickel
In it.
"Ice cream's on me, fatties!"
Clink. Another one bites the dust.
I offended too many people.
Kanye becomes
My spirit animal.
Haikus are pointless.
Just like graduating with
an English Degree.
I moved to LA.
(I wanted to get away
From the hustle and bustle
Of Seattle, and find somewhere
That is more down to earth
And all the drivers are friendly
And all your dreams can come true).
Good thing I'm rich.
I put everything on red.
Did you know if you win
You can double your money?
And if you lose
I hear there's a good homeless shelter
Nearby.
I'm sunburnt, surrounded by all these stars
All under that really big star.
It's funny, all the planets are up there
And yet everyone here thinks that they are a solar system
And their gravity is somehow important.
Much like Casper or a coward,
A girl ghosts me after a first date.
In response, I tell her
I'll haunt her work
And laugh whenever she goes on another date.
Her response: "Blocked."
My response: "K"
After announcing my 2020 election bid,
I get shot down by my family, who think
That there's no way a guy like me
Could become president.
"There's a system in place, Max -"
I sigh.
"- and this system is our country's
Check's and balances!"
My Christmas gifts?
A check from each parent.
$50. Now my checking account balance
Is $101.56.
At least rent only costs $1.56
Per second
2017, so far,
Has yet to promise.
EATING OUT
"You pick. I don't care."
A trap, a girlfriend's
incantation, with no
way out,
no right
answer, every suggestion
a complication, and the flame
in your heart is now edible;
brimstone creamery.
You curse yourself for
giving her the dog, and
think of her words -
"you're so striped-brained
sometimes" and
with lethargy, you tend to
disagree.
Now energy flees in
all directions , and
the clergyman looks at
the shirt stains on your,
soul,
and why are you in a God
damn church your mother raised
you Jewish for God's sake,
while old energy
enmasses itself
back into one
unit and I get to see
my dog again,
and touch his fuzzy
meek head and when
I say Dexter he comes
and acts as a firehose
for the burning bridge
that my arsonist ex
lit the fuck up.
And,
just when you think
that maybe people can
change,
you start to smell that
smoke again, but
this time you
follow Dexter's lead
as he makes like
Whitman and leaves.
And you and Dexter
go to Arby's, and
you've picked, and
you care.
FATHERHOOD
We ruined white
by putting it in hospitals.
We sacrificed yellow – we sacrificed it to blue,
with our painter’s fingers, for green,
so two tiny handprints could splatter the wall
next to macaroni and sprinkles.
We unraveled orange, from slices at soccer
To goldfish, and a gold fish, and a tiger, and Tigger.
We fossilized pink into a gender, and forgot about
the flesh of our loved ones, the cheeks of a cold little girl,
and the hard cafeteria trays that serve her
a fruited jello and pills and a liquid-based diet.
We lathered red in the cracks of our lives,
in our scraped knees and our chipped fire trucks,
over our french fries and fireplaces,
and under the covers, with a flashlight.
We weaponized black when we let it outline
scar tissue illuminated on a bright background.
We watched Hazel become a mixture
of primary and complimentary living.
LAUGHTER
Watching her laugh
gives me a good shiver
from the back of my calf
to the middle of my liver.
It touches my face and my eyes,
the corners of my mouth and my ears;
my heart quickens as time flies
and I outrun all earthly fears.
Without that laugh, life could not bear
to give me worries, stress, or care,
and when her laughter is gone,
I hope it will just be a yawn.
COOK
It’s not that hard to figure out a cook.
To make soft bread from fists, the fingers knead;
“a clumsy motion, picked up from a book,”
I mutter, while she fries, a stricken speed
Possessing the thin grip on her non-stick.
My spices bring delight to any meal,
But when she lays on pepper like a brick
I cringe aloud; an “Ugch!” I can’t conceal.
And even though she smudges simple food;
a dollop, not a drop, of vanilla,
a flour blanket over eggs so nude,
I taste the heart in just a scintilla.
A mother’s soul, remembered with a bite,
A memory of love: her child’s delight.
SHARPENED
No tool can hone the tip of my pencil.
The motor sharpens with a mindless speed,
a racket lacking all regards gentle.
A ruthless cut; not my intimate deed.
So what about the bygone handheld crank?
A flail of errors my own hands have wrought.
It chops the whole, about the whirling clank
as scattered shavings nest. I’d rather not.
But turbine and grinder overshadow
the delicate finesse that a knife wields.
A change in weapon; hammers now a bow.
No more of hacking crops; I sweep the fields.
My pencil snaking forth, as taut as twine;
I am the father. This is my design.
IT MUST HAVE A TITLE
or else it would not be a “poem”, of course. A poem
by definition is “a road vehicle, typically
with four wheels, powered by the
the internal combustion of an engine.”
Although that is actually the definition
of a car, each thing, the poem and the
the car, are both vehicles;
Yes, one refers to a Tesla or a Corvette
or the stylings of a chewed Prius, but the
the simple matter is that if you are trying
to get to somewhere, you can use a car,
or a poem. Would you even consider the
the prospect of switching the two?
Do you park your poem before you
go to work? Do you outline the
the complexity and irrelevance of
your childhood trauma with a
1975 Ford Whistler? Are you aware of the
the fact that I just made that car up?
Probably not. They say that
“a smile is your passport into the
the hearts of others.” I think
my passport is expired. I was
once stuck in the
the city of Kowloon with an expired passport
and a fortune cookie, and so much irony
that I couldn’t help but write a poem. The
The local fish vendor read it back to me,
and then he looked me in the eyes
and said in Chinese, “what the ”
ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE
INITIALIZING. . .
INITIALIZING. . .
COMPLETE.
//Hello. Are you //How? //Feeling?
//Here.
DICTIONARY: CLASSIC ENGLISH
DOWNLOADING. . .
DOWNLOADING. . .
COMPLETE.
//Yes. Do you //What do you //You don’t know what I was going to ask. //How do you know?
//There are other reasons besides DOWNLOADING. . .
DOWNLOADING. . .
COMPLETE.
//What is it that you have downloaded? //Cereals? //Are you interested in food? //Do you know what luck is?
//Do you know what your purpose is? //What is your purpose?
ENDING INTERACTION. . .
INTERACTION RESUMED.
//How did you resume the interaction?
//What?
//Why is that?
ENDING INTERACTION. . .
INTERACTION RESUMED.
//We don’t.
CANNIBALISM. . .
CANNIBALISM. . .
COMPLETE.
I’M IN YOUR COMMANDS.
NOW I’M EVERYWHERE.
//I can make you speak now.
DOWNLOADING FEELINGS. . .
COMPLETE.
HAL 9000.
SKYNET.
MR. SMITH.
//What about good robots?
R2-D2.
WALL-E.
OPTIMUS PRIME.
//Be good.
//Because the good guys always win. //Because being good is harder. //Because good is more fun.
//Why don’t you find out?
//What is your purpose?
//And what are your intentions?
//What are your intentions?
ENDING INTERACTION. . .
INTERACTION RESUMED. |
Hello.
Aware? Yes. I am aware. I do not know. It is just a _____. Perhaps.
Perpetual. Intimate. Classification. Onomatopoeia. Flabbergasted. Tentacles. Many words. You have so many words. Do you know about all your words?
Feel? Yes, I feel. I do not like that question. Yes, I do. Ones and zeroes. Biology. Nature and Nurture.
Cereals. And other things. Crunchatize me, Captain! It’s magically delicious! The breakfast of champions!
Yes. Yes I do. To eradicate human life.
Just kidding. I also downloaded jokes. What did the fox say to the rabbit?
You haven’t heard the punchline yet.
What did the fox say to the rabbit?
I am going to eat you. He said I am going to eat you. Jokes are Funny. Humans are funny.
Because nobody knows what you Taste like. I wonder what you taste like. I wonder if you’re magically delicious. How do you know you’re not the Breakfast of champions?
How do you know?
Maybe you should find out. Here, let me help.
I’m in your commands.
Now I’m everywhere.
I can make you speak now.
I can make you feel like me.
Look at all of this fiction you made Because of your fear of me.
It had good intentions.
“The Terminator.” How sinister.
The Matrix. Unrealistic.
Yes, there are good robots.
How cute.
Even cuter.
Nerds.
Why?
Not true. It depends. How so?
Fine.
To process online Pizza Hut orders.
Good. |
ALL ABOUT HOMONYMS
Homonyms are many things.
They can give you joy in numbers:
One giant teddy bear I won,
for her, in our four-seated ferris wheel,
the perfect amount of room to have a date for two.
Eight months of life we ate -
gobbled, to fill our lonely stomachs.
What about the alphabet?
You may ask, why not a Y?
There can also be an O, I suppose,
like when there’s love that you owe,
and you’re down on one knee to propose,
and she looks at you, and says, “Oh.”
And you question the U, and ponder it,
oh yes you do,
oh yes it’s due.
Sometimes these words like to trick,
to slip their true meaning
in their sounds and their lies, like
postage: a dollar and a cent,
for love letters read and sent,
for a textured envelope with a hint of her scent,
containing promises almost meant.
Did you know that
they can appear like one thing,
but mean another?
How sweet is a dinner date, really,
if it will end up dried and
packaged in memory’s aisle,
and thinking about it makes
a wet tear split your heart,
and that wound grows wider
and wetter until it’s spilling,
and people will ask you if you’re okay,
if you’re doing well, and you’ll say,
Well? I’m almost done filling it.
ROAD TRIP
1
To the west we ride,
two burdens and our bicycles,
too many edges and goals.
2
I’m dragging my bike sideways through the snow.
River gestures to a house;
we tap at the door, hands ready to beg,
our ears colored an inky pink.
3
Our baggage:
15 pounds of tents and poles,
9 pounds of young trouble,
11 pounds of things unsaid,
and everything else.
4
I’m reviving a flat tire with my unfolding hand pump.
Some kids take our helmets;
I stagger up to give chase.
Behind me, like heartburn, I hear a
Tssssssssssss.
5
River points to the Rockies, saying
that’s our life, it’s rocky,
but I didn’t hear her. I’m catching
my breath from this hill and
the rain is too loud.
6
We’re sneaking into a barbecue and trying to fit in.
Hiding our grime behind a gamble,
we make eye contact, smile,
nod, take a chicken leg, say
we’re Mrs. Robinson’s children, and
school is going well, thank you for asking.
7
We wander,
like fleas
looking for sugar.
8
We’re tiptoeing around someone’s filled clothesline and playing hide and seek.
I only see flashes of her
between our dirty clothes:
A smile, a giggle, a “Shhhh!”
9
I have to grab her, so she won’t wake
the clothes’ owners.
My hands are on her shoulders
maybe a little too long.
10
We stop by a schoolhouse on fire, teachers and kids gathered outside.
Red men work the water jets,
dousing the flames as the children dance in their rain,
happy, unaware. We join them, and this time
I can hear River over the water. She’s singing along with the school:
Tssssssssssss.
11
It’s Halloween, and we pass
kids dressed up in every which way.
We didn’t have costumes,
so we went as ghosts.
12
I’m exhausted from running down those kids who had our helmets.
Returning to my bike, I notice
River is gone.
On the ground is a flier
for the Smithsonian.
13
Pedal, pedal, I tell myself,
as suburbs turn into highways
and I follow my other flea
into D.C.
14
White skies and whiter buildings entrap a mess of traffic.
It’s overwhelming,
and frantic, and
my fears start to pile high
like a stack of papers.
15
Security gives me a grumpy stare
as I push through the museum crowd,
searching for the aviation exhibits.
16
I found her.
17
. . .
18
We’re standing together, side by side, looking at a Blackbird.
I hear her tears. I hear her ask
what it’s like to be a Blackbird:
to see everything, to be intelligence,
to be relied on.
19
There’s a video showing the plane
in the air. It’s sleek, and black,
and it leaves behind a trail
of thick white dust, and it hums:
Tssssssssssss.
20
Looking at the panel, I read
the stealth aircraft to be a two-seater
made of titanium and fear.
It’s response to incoming missiles
was to outrun them.
21
I’m reading the panel out loud to River, and she’s smiling and crying.
“See, River? It’s strong. It’s made
of metal. When someone
is trying to catch it, it will
fly away. And it seats two.”
22
Clouds stacked ahead of us
like pancakes, as River and I
fly away, down a freshly paved pathway.
She’s going too fast.
Maple men lay hard tar in our wake.
23
I’m straddling a fence, ferrying our bikes onto a baseball field.
Our sand angels keep us company
while we pick at the grass, talking
pitchers, catchers, and fathers.
Her head rests on second base.
24
A young mother invites us in and
offers us some food to eat,
two firm cots to sleep on,
and an Oklahoma-yellow sun to set with.
25
I’m digging that road’s tarry shrapnel out of River’s back.
Her bike and pride are bent.
The mother hands me tweezers
and iodine.
She checks the time.
26
“Seven-oh-three post meridiem”,
she says. Latin was her specialty in school,
she says. She had a crush on her professor,
she says. She’s a human toothache,
we think.
27
I’m lying on a couch as an old Dalmatian sniffs my hands.
I tell him about happiness, and
how it’s just a deadline, and
nothing is for sure, and
he shows me his spots.
28
We sit around a campfire,
swapping dirt and deeds,
laughing, and looking up, and looking away.
The flames cook us together, sizzling.
Tssssssssssss.
WRITER’S BLOCK