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Fight_Club

NOTES ON FIGHT CLUB

The moral is,
Inside every Edward Norton
There’s a Brad Pitt laying him flat.
Everyone I know is engaged
In subliminal acts of terror.
John Doe for Generation X
Is a sexed up apparition
Of a boy with broken teeth.

I am Miriam’s throttled scream.
She doesn’t know it yet, but
A guy (let’s call him Tyler)
Will break her knee with a
Hammer if it means he
Steals a kiss. Millennials
Are suckers for fair-trade
Coffee beans. And sound-bites.

And don’t kiss me for an hour,
At least. Maybe longer.
I have coffee breath.
Practice being different from
Young people seventeen
Years older. Use a mirror.
Or plant an invasive species
Because it’s pretty. Or punch,

Me? I want world peace to be
The work of someone less angry
Than us. Or sure enough to bite
In self-defense. And imaginary
Friends are only good for one,
Maybe two things: a place
To crash and a subtle hint
That our mind is drifting.

By Miriam McEwen

 

Tuesdays_in_sept

I need another rock like I need a hole in the head.

Another plane has hit Tower Two.

Somebody’s doing this on purpose.

Our children just don’t know it yet.

This is why our parents told us to read the fine print.

It’s called the long road to freedom.

Something like an old Spiritual hums and shimmies.

America delights in the Blues.

There’s a pain in my head.

People enjoy that raw humanity.

Lead me to a new level of thinking.

One thing I learn to do is follow directions from north to south.

You interview someone and they will give you their shoe.

It is a detailed record of every move they made.

The man is to stand with a folded newspaper in his right hand.

Stories break out of buildings up in the air.      

We love to dissect the bewildered laughter.

Look just there, my sweet.

Lower Manhattan is crashing.

Incidentally, my paper cut stings.

The florid woman is to change her clocks presently.

Monday was the last good day of the week.

I cut my grass down to the roots this morning.

Everything beyond my front stoop was becoming a wilderness.

It comes to me that smoke carries no sound.

We all fall back to Zero annually.

By Miriam McEwen

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