. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Sunday, March 7, 2010

The Dookie Game

This is the game to defy all games. A backyard competition of intricate skill and well-mastered timing. It involves two athletes, a plastic bag (best double-bagged) full of fresh dog shit and a grassy lot with open airspace above. To play is to enter a game where the rewards are like well-groomed cocaine and defeat can leave a man broken and shit stained. In the spirit of the Olympics, here is a poem dedicated to this art...


Pile of dog shit on high,
ascending,
Wal-Mart plastic bag like a rocket heading to the sun,
warm kernels of canine feces are star-bound astronauts inside,
trailing plastic flapping handles where jet fuel propellant and thick white smoke should be,
weightless at its apex,
one last loop around the moon before heading home,
a distant speck with a backdrop of blue,
a failed launch?
homesick?
the shit bag turns and begins its journey earthward,
descending,
plummeting heavy and hard,
like a ton of bricks,
like a plastic bag of wet dog shit,

I struggle in the grass yard to pinpoint its trajectory,
eyes scanning the heavens,
feet shuffling tongue-tied beneath me,
an eclipse across the sun,
blinding glare,
I close my eyes,
rely on the instinct that has gotten me this far,
my hand moves,
my heart stops,
the moment,
the moment,
the moment comes and goes,
my fingers collapse upon themselves,
and when I awake the plastic bag is securely in my fist,
dookie, I shout,

DOOKIE!

3.3.10



2 comments:

  1. is this poem REALLY about catching dog shit? I think you're disillusioned!

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  2. Take a closer look at the picture, my friend. The veritable bag is clearly in play. It is indeed a very real sport with a refined and concrete set of rules and regulations. A real man's game of skill and chance - a test of endurance and courage. Perhaps I should post those said rules somewhere so that the world can partake in it themselves.

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