JIM DANIELS
Correction Fluid
In 1985, God still used a typewriter
and I still carried a handkerchief
in my pocket to wave at the world
in greeting or surrender
or to simply blow my nose.
I was still using pen and ink
though had stopped writing to God.
I’m not saying he noticed.
I rode my bicycle up and down hills
across Europe and read maps
like a scholar of scripture or a critic
of fine art pornography.
I could still out-race farm dogs
chasing me down back roads.
I had a good laugh back then.
Want to hear it? Ha ha. Ha ha ha.
Not yet thirty, I asked for a wing
and a prayer for my birthday.
A bartender in Bruges gave them to me
in the form of a beer named for the devil.
I wanted a flaming tongue above my head,
a sign I could cash in for a message
from the girl back home who’d abandoned me
for some guy from Iowa who she claimed
knew both how to kiss, and how to make-up.
Outside of Bologna, I skidded into gravel,
flew over the handlebars, and somersaulted
back to my feet, witnessed only by the subdued
gaze of jaded cows and their fizzy flies.
Not a scratch. I wanted at least a scratch.
But my gifts and souvenirs broke in my saddle bags.
I handed fragments to those who had no interest
in hearing more about me, me, me.
The girl from home became a figment
of my future. Everything becomes a relic
to true believers, but all those pieces
were miscellaneous punch lines to bad jokes.
Groaners. What’s holding this together
is a series of lies. I’m still not writing to God,
laptop or not, but I have been humbled
by technology and the lack of American mass transit.
See, nothing comes together at the end. The circle
is broken, the torn map fluttering in the wind
like a kite pretending to be lost.
Have mercy on the lost, I’d ask him.
In 1985, I had no mercy myself, not yet thirty.
We closed the bar like workmen
putting the sea back together
after Moses parted it.
We closed the bar
like dogs done sniffing
each other’s butts.
We closed the bar
like eliminated game show contestants.
We closed the bar
like a rock and a hard place.
We closed the bar
like father, son, and Holy Ghost.
We closed the bar
like the rabbi, the priest, and the transvestite.
We closed the bar
like monkeys waving upside-down sale signs.
We closed the bar
our heads tilted back like we were inhaling stars.
We closed the bar
like bad report cards.
We closed the bar
like magicians pulling other magicians out of our hats.
We closed the bar
and the bartender was grateful.
We closed the bar
and the night air smelled like church smoke.
We closed the bar
and the gravel in the parking lot applauded.
We closed the bar
and the clock let down its guard.
We closed the bar
and the half-cocked moon nevertheless took away the keys.
We closed the bar
and we took credit where credit was morning dew.
We closed the bar
and sang the song “Remember the Time”
and made up all the words
and told each other they were true
and the refrain was our breathing,
visible in the cold, under floodlights
and we rocked our way home
under vicious waves of lullaby.
after Moses parted it.
We closed the bar
like dogs done sniffing
each other’s butts.
We closed the bar
like eliminated game show contestants.
We closed the bar
like a rock and a hard place.
We closed the bar
like father, son, and Holy Ghost.
We closed the bar
like the rabbi, the priest, and the transvestite.
We closed the bar
like monkeys waving upside-down sale signs.
We closed the bar
our heads tilted back like we were inhaling stars.
We closed the bar
like bad report cards.
We closed the bar
like magicians pulling other magicians out of our hats.
We closed the bar
and the bartender was grateful.
We closed the bar
and the night air smelled like church smoke.
We closed the bar
and the gravel in the parking lot applauded.
We closed the bar
and the clock let down its guard.
We closed the bar
and the half-cocked moon nevertheless took away the keys.
We closed the bar
and we took credit where credit was morning dew.
We closed the bar
and sang the song “Remember the Time”
and made up all the words
and told each other they were true
and the refrain was our breathing,
visible in the cold, under floodlights
and we rocked our way home
under vicious waves of lullaby.
Jim Daniels
Jim Daniels’ recent books include Having a Little Talk with Capital P Poetry, Carnegie Mellon University Press, All of the Above, Adastra Press, and Trigger Man, short fiction, Michigan State University Press, all published in 2011. Birth Marks, BOA Editions, will appear in 2013.
