Tuesday, September 25, 2007
A poem, second third draft:
Take down these next ten digits:
[Phone number]
[Repeated. Faster.]
That,
my friends,
is your muthafuckin' bat phone.
A direct line to dial
before the next time you head to hit the [Name of Location]
because I
am the wingman.
Here to help you procure all the pussy
I've never been able to get for myself.
And I know that probably pissed off half the women in the audience,
but I'd remind you that one day
you're going to go out for that good dick
and I'm not going to judge you then.
I might even
be able
to help.
I'm available to push, prod, nudge
and be the grand fucking facilitator
without a single soul sensing a thing.
Providing open shots
like Steve Nash gets the Suns
carrying conversations about nothing
like a master of my domain
and, yes,
fucking
fat
friends.
NOTE:
There remains a two-bagger minimum.
I've still got some standards.
Keeping the conversation
cohesive and compelling
is par for the course,
but the Phase 2 package
means remembering that time you saved the sea lions in Alaska
...
There's no pinnipeds in the Arctic?
Well, fuck you and your marine biology!
... I meant penguins.
Ladies love the lil guys.
And it's obscure knowledge like that
that will allow me to cock lead block
right through the heart of the defense
breaking open a lane
for backfield penetration
bandying stiff arms about
as you hit holes
without anyone
deflecting a pass.
This is a special set of skills
acquired only after years of watching
that guy
get the girl,
before becoming cool belatedly
and remaining unable to convert the knowledge
into succ-sex
in spite of myself.
When you're accustomed to being best friends,
it's hard to treat women like conquests
because you've seen what they look like defeated
and that's not something you're ready to be responsible for.
So I've made every effort
only to break hearts
that will remember me fondly
as I mutually mack it for everyone else,
offering a steady supply of situational setups,
making the magic happen
because maybe it means
this time
they don't fuck it up.
And it's easier to have that faith in others
than change anything about myself,
a me never remembered
unless I'm run into,
but then showered with smiles
and even some shots,
because if the situation went sour,
well,
it wasn't my fault
and God -
she had sooo much fucking fun that night
and totally wants to do it again,
obvi,
and needs my number like, yesterday.
This is a fine plan
until she shows up with someone else
and can't remember my name
at the introduction.
But I'll smile
and find a partner for pool
because maybe it means
this time,
she won't fuck it up
if only she gets a little encouragement
from someone willing to draw away enemy fire
even as it blows up
in his face.
Take down these next ten digits:
[Phone number]
[Repeated. Faster.]
That,
my friends,
is your muthafuckin' bat phone.
A direct line to dial
before the next time you head to hit the [Name of Location]
because I
am the wingman.
Here to help you procure all the pussy
I've never been able to get for myself.
And I know that probably pissed off half the women in the audience,
but I'd remind you that one day
you're going to go out for that good dick
and I'm not going to judge you then.
I might even
be able
to help.
I'm available to push, prod, nudge
and be the grand fucking facilitator
without a single soul sensing a thing.
Providing open shots
like Steve Nash gets the Suns
carrying conversations about nothing
like a master of my domain
and, yes,
fucking
fat
friends.
NOTE:
There remains a two-bagger minimum.
I've still got some standards.
Keeping the conversation
cohesive and compelling
is par for the course,
but the Phase 2 package
means remembering that time you saved the sea lions in Alaska
...
There's no pinnipeds in the Arctic?
Well, fuck you and your marine biology!
... I meant penguins.
Ladies love the lil guys.
And it's obscure knowledge like that
that will allow me to cock lead block
right through the heart of the defense
breaking open a lane
for backfield penetration
bandying stiff arms about
as you hit holes
without anyone
deflecting a pass.
This is a special set of skills
acquired only after years of watching
that guy
get the girl,
before becoming cool belatedly
and remaining unable to convert the knowledge
into succ-sex
in spite of myself.
When you're accustomed to being best friends,
it's hard to treat women like conquests
because you've seen what they look like defeated
and that's not something you're ready to be responsible for.
So I've made every effort
only to break hearts
that will remember me fondly
as I mutually mack it for everyone else,
offering a steady supply of situational setups,
making the magic happen
because maybe it means
this time
they don't fuck it up.
And it's easier to have that faith in others
than change anything about myself,
a me never remembered
unless I'm run into,
but then showered with smiles
and even some shots,
because if the situation went sour,
well,
it wasn't my fault
and God -
she had sooo much fucking fun that night
and totally wants to do it again,
obvi,
and needs my number like, yesterday.
This is a fine plan
until she shows up with someone else
and can't remember my name
at the introduction.
But I'll smile
and find a partner for pool
because maybe it means
this time,
she won't fuck it up
if only she gets a little encouragement
from someone willing to draw away enemy fire
even as it blows up
in his face.
Labels: poetry, Relationships, The Game
