No one is safe. The streets are unsafe.
Even in the safety zones, it’s not safe.
Even safe sex is not safe.
Even things you lock in a safe
are not safe. Never deposit anything
in a safety deposit box, because it
won’t be safe there. Nobody is safe
at home during baseball games anymore.
At night I go around in the dark
locking everything, returning
a few minutes later
to make sure I locked
everything. It’s not safe here.
It’s not safe and they know it.
People get hurt using safety pins.
It was not always this way.
Long ago, everyone felt safe. Aristotle
never felt danger. Herodotus felt danger
only when Xerxes was around. Young women
were afraid of wingèd dragons, but felt
relaxed otherwise. Timotheus, however,
was terrified of storms until he played
one on the flute. After that, everyone
was more afraid of him than of the violent
west wind, which was fine with Timotheus.
Euclid, full of music himself, believed only
that there was safety in numbers.
—From The Drift of Things (The Figures Press, 2001); reprinted here by
author’s permission
I hate this entire year, the way it stops
and starts, dries you out, soaks you, lulls you
to sleep, then wakes you up in a cold sweat.
Not to mention the pills that are required
just to get through it. I’m on Tylenol
with codeine at this very moment.
It sees to it that the bills keep coming,
marked by obvious deceit. The dentist we despise
who keeps overcharging us, for example.
It is so objectionable, so unfair.
Where are the free lunches of yesteryear,
the Martinis, Manhattans, highballs
on the hotel terrace overlooking the magic
domes of the glittering city?
It was not like this in 1982, I can tell you that.
1982 let you smoke all the True Blues you wanted.
It said, go ahead—have fun! Eat giant hamburgers,
huge slices of cake, big platefuls of French fries.
Fuck all night, sleep late, call in sick. It told you
you had to listen to Van Morrison singing
“Cypress Avenue” over and over, all night long
till there was nothing left of it to inhale.
—From Falling Out of Bed in a Room with No Floor (Hanging Loose Press);
reprinted here by author’s permission
When I die I promise to haunt
all my surviving enemies,
may they be few if any at that point,
because I hope to outlive them all.
But if any of them are left
I’ll keep them awake all night with weird noises.
I’ll whisper words in their ears while they sleep
to encourage feelings of low self-esteem when they awake.
Actually, I’ll never let them sleep.
I’ll kick them out of bed
just as they’re falling
into deep slumber.
Or maybe I’ll just let them be.
Enemies are such a responsibility,
and eat up so much time.
Perhaps I’ll just travel,
which I didn’t really enjoy
much while alive. I’ll travel,
eat fish, listen to rap music
and bluegrass, read a lot
of trade association magazines,
have numerous root canals,
and settle down somewhere in Ohio.
—From The Drift of Things (The Figures Press, 2001); reprinted here by
author’s permission
writes some of the cleverest & most amusing poems in America. He has published
a number of collections of poetry including This Way Out (Hanging Loose,
2014), Lit from Below (Salmon Poetry [Ireland], 2013), Falling Out of Bed
In a Room With No Floor (Hanging Loose, 2011), and The Drift of Things
(The Figures, 2001), among others. His work has appeared in numerous anthologies;
and he has received an NEA Fellowship in Poetry and won the Gertrude Stein Award
for Innovative Writing.
www.terencewinch.com
[See also Verse Daily’s
About Terence Winch, which includes a link-list of other poems of his on the web.]