JIM DANIELS
Cocaine Roundup
Restless cowboys shred
their paper hats and rewrite their wills
to leave science to everything.
The horses, on the other hand, fuck
like rabbits. The moral of the story curls
brown in campfire flames.
Bedrolls have been co-opted
for future reference. Six-shooters
smoke in their holsters.
Staying up all night, just part
of the fun. In the morning,
cowboys chase horses in circles
until everybody has a good whinny.
They endlessly repeat the word roundup
like the punch line to one of those saloon jokes,
but bored cattle calmly reserve comment
like statues of a forgotten good idea.
The cowboys left their branding irons
back at the ranch, so maybe they’ll
prospect instead, dig for gold in the weeds.
From a distance, this whole scene looks ridiculous
to those of you not wearing paper hats.
their paper hats and rewrite their wills
to leave science to everything.
The horses, on the other hand, fuck
like rabbits. The moral of the story curls
brown in campfire flames.
Bedrolls have been co-opted
for future reference. Six-shooters
smoke in their holsters.
Staying up all night, just part
of the fun. In the morning,
cowboys chase horses in circles
until everybody has a good whinny.
They endlessly repeat the word roundup
like the punch line to one of those saloon jokes,
but bored cattle calmly reserve comment
like statues of a forgotten good idea.
The cowboys left their branding irons
back at the ranch, so maybe they’ll
prospect instead, dig for gold in the weeds.
From a distance, this whole scene looks ridiculous
to those of you not wearing paper hats.
The Mystery of Teenagers
The Mystery Spot is a gravitational anomaly…you will be stunned as your perceptions of the laws of physics and gravity are questioned. But don't take our word for it, come and decide for yourself!
The real Mystery Spot traps parents, not tourists.
Balls roll uphill or dissolve into unidentifiable
sticky substances. Dirty clothes spontaneously
combust, fed by kindling of the pronoun I
in various splintered permutations. The Spot
from where I get nostalgic for yesterday.
For one hour ago. Where growth spurts
and mirrors magnetize. Where souls camouflage
into headphones emitting sounds only dead dogs
and children can decipher. Where, if you’re discovered
snooping, mad barking commences. You bark back.
No clever banter, no situation comedy.
We’re all dogs, A to Z, genus and species, genius
and sudden idiot. Watch the door slam. At this point,
I struggle to advise, having lost sight
of the Mystery Exit. Well, make your withdrawals now
so you’re ready for the crash. What do economists know
about the slammed door sinking through the heart like…
like…an empty elevator shaft plunge, and you’re shouting
the one word for help you can remember, which is listen.
Not in their dictionary. No redemption
for sweet childhood coupons. Nostalgia
for Monopoly money that could buy you anything.
The dog—only a teenager for three days
in dog years— shakes its weary head
and falls back into dreams. In the Mystery Spot
despite standing in the hallway on the second floor
you begin sinking into what appears to be
your grave. Nostalgia for gravity, the apples’ reliable
fall, the innocent bite. In situation comedies,
resolution takes thirty minutes. With commercials,
less. Despite their flaws, all characters are witty
and loveable. You can’t smell farts on TV,
yet teenagers still find them amusing.
Did you see the episode where the teenager
found one of your hairs on the soap in the shower
and her head exploded? I can’t decide whether to end this
in invisible ink or fill-in-the-blank. The only correct answer
is: e, all of the above. Give the teacher an apple.
Give the teacher interest on the benefit of the doubt.
Okay, now put lemon juice on this paper and light it.
Enjoy the ashes while you can.
The real Mystery Spot traps parents, not tourists.
Balls roll uphill or dissolve into unidentifiable
sticky substances. Dirty clothes spontaneously
combust, fed by kindling of the pronoun I
in various splintered permutations. The Spot
from where I get nostalgic for yesterday.
For one hour ago. Where growth spurts
and mirrors magnetize. Where souls camouflage
into headphones emitting sounds only dead dogs
and children can decipher. Where, if you’re discovered
snooping, mad barking commences. You bark back.
No clever banter, no situation comedy.
We’re all dogs, A to Z, genus and species, genius
and sudden idiot. Watch the door slam. At this point,
I struggle to advise, having lost sight
of the Mystery Exit. Well, make your withdrawals now
so you’re ready for the crash. What do economists know
about the slammed door sinking through the heart like…
like…an empty elevator shaft plunge, and you’re shouting
the one word for help you can remember, which is listen.
Not in their dictionary. No redemption
for sweet childhood coupons. Nostalgia
for Monopoly money that could buy you anything.
The dog—only a teenager for three days
in dog years— shakes its weary head
and falls back into dreams. In the Mystery Spot
despite standing in the hallway on the second floor
you begin sinking into what appears to be
your grave. Nostalgia for gravity, the apples’ reliable
fall, the innocent bite. In situation comedies,
resolution takes thirty minutes. With commercials,
less. Despite their flaws, all characters are witty
and loveable. You can’t smell farts on TV,
yet teenagers still find them amusing.
Did you see the episode where the teenager
found one of your hairs on the soap in the shower
and her head exploded? I can’t decide whether to end this
in invisible ink or fill-in-the-blank. The only correct answer
is: e, all of the above. Give the teacher an apple.
Give the teacher interest on the benefit of the doubt.
Okay, now put lemon juice on this paper and light it.
Enjoy the ashes while you can.
Copyright © September 2017 Map Literary and Jim Daniels
Jim Daniels’ next books of poems, Rowing Inland, Wayne State University Press, and Street Calligraphy, Steel Toe Books, will both be published in 2017. His fifth book of short fiction, Eight Mile High, was published by Michigan State University Press in 2014. “The End of Blessings,” the fourth short film he has written and produced, appeared in numerous film festivals in 2016. A native of Detroit, Daniels is a graduate of Alma College and Bowling Green State University. He is the Thomas Stockham University Professor of English at Carnegie Mellon University.
