Anti-American Poem
After Eileen Myles And The Decision To Not Self-Destruct
I was born in Hamilton in
1986. I always wanted
this fact to be fiction. In fact
I’ve spent this whole DMT trip
pretending I didn’t exist.
My uncle’s such a gorgeous criminal.
Once he called my parents’
house from a second landline
he’d installed in their front yard.
I was so proud of him.
I wanted to puke glitter
and unicorns for days.
And by criminal I just mean
Uncle Dick was arrested
for stealing garbage
(TVs, CDs, DVDs, machines
that make cola from tap water,
aluminum foil from the future)
off the back of a truck he drove
but didn’t and could never
own. Way he saw it, anything
he could call his own
could be considered his home.
At least that’s what I said to my dad
when Uncle Dick phoned
from prison wanting to know
whether our back yard was any good
for doing donuts in a hot pickup.
UNLCE DICK I screamed
into pastel wallpaper
EVERY YARD IS A GREAT YARD
FOR DOING DONUTS IN A HOT PICKUP!
Anyway, last year I scored
big on the Amtrak.
Kid who asked if I’d ever been
to Burning Man sold me
something. I didn’t know
whether to smoke, snort, or shoot it
but it smelt like lilacs
so I took it home and gave it a name.
Named it Stone Talus.
My teeth ache but what doesn’t?
Shouldn’t we all be swans?
This nation’s greatest city
isn’t a city at all.
The nation’s greatest city
is the unincorporated community
of La Pointe, Wisconsin
off the shores of which
one could easily drown
their least version of favorite self.
The dilemma is such
I set the lake to freeze
and select disappear.
I’m educated. I guess.
I’ve learned
about broken window
and affect theories,
Jodi Piccoult,
business ethics
(there’s none)
statistics, factory farms,
career planning, the works!
Everyone’s alone tonight.
My tooth is on the list
for a donated tooth
and her tooth is on the list
for a donated liver.
Am I the only one passing out
in this gallery tonight?
My art is a hotbed dishrag
in a time calling for ventilators.
Our safety net has a capacity of 300lbs.
It’ll never be enough
for two actual humans.
Recently I got caught
cackling at Guignol’s Band.
Maintained a through line.
Gave up.
Slept in the Hamptons.
Slept on a Hammock.
Passed out behind a Dunkin.
Puked in the streets.
I’m trying to shake the need
for health insurance
but the wraiths of normies
keep on keepin’ on
wringing my bones
until my child can no longer
use’em as a lamp
or whatever. I’m not
your president tonight.
Better thank whoever is though.
Better thank whoever shames you
into this sweet sticky darkness.
Celebrity Hotels Are Destined To Fail
Driving to my new gig
taking out psychiatric trash
& swapping piss cakes
in a mental health center
for active Juggalos
in mountainous need
I realize I could just keep driving
until I reach saltwater
or maybe the nearest sinkhole.
I could totally Barbara Newhall Follet
or even Weldon Kees on outta here.
While languishing in the origami
of a lifetime of sealed transcripts
I want you to know
about the perfidy
I’ve been cultivating
for a grand finale.
The bulging respectability
my parents have plastered
across this blood sugar face
ever since I exited the safety cage
is beginning to grow a boil.
It’s beginning to oust itself
amid ongoing controversy.
Joseph Goosey lives in North Carolina. He is the author of a chapbook, STUPID ACHE (Greybook Press, 2013), a full-length collection of poems, Parade of Malfeasance(EMP Books. 2020), and a novel, Casey Anthony, Renowned Trapeze Artist(Schism Neuronics, 2024).
