Where the Wild Things are..... going to go hang.

May 06, 2006 02:03

"It's two AM., I'm drunk again, it's heavy on my mind."

This is another poem I wrote for my workshop class last semester. Check it.

Impact

There’s a moment right between
before and after. During?
I don’t know what you’d call it.

I swing a seven iron like
my dad swings his five, but just
as far, and still he tells me
how to do it right.

Square up. Bend the knees,
ease up the tension on the grip,
club face perpendicular. No,
like this. Stop.

Steady on the back swing. Trace
the swing on the way up, and break
the wrists over, NOW, hit down
on the ball.

Watch it as it flies, so you can
find it again. If it goes too far off
the fairway, race out there and fight for it
so other golfer’s don’t pick it up.

My dad slices his golf ball
out to the water hazard
on the right and has to
take a one-stroke penalty,
and then he lays up.

When it’s my turn, I swing,
and take off like a rocket. I
carve my own path, over trees and pass
the assholes in their plaid shorts.

There’s a moment right between
before and after when I know
I’ve done it right, and it
feels damn good.
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