Berlin Poghems

Berlin Poghems

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“West”

We were there for the same reason:
You were standing on the corner because you were waiting to cross the street, and I-
I was also standing on the corner because you were waiting to cross the street.

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“Spree”

If you joined me in Berlin
in the morning
I would stand so your shadow fell on me.

If you joined me in Berlin
In the evening
I would stand so my shadow fell on you.

Always I would stand to the West of you
for you would love East Berlin
and East Berlin would love you
so
that to stand between the two of you would be
even by my
mad
standards
unsafe.

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“Miles of Glass”

I wanted you to love me and
so
when you opened the window to the cold
Berlin air
I pretended to approve; I told you
“Good, get some fresh air”
and you laughed
dug in your pockets
lit a cigarette
leaned out the window
breathed smoke towards the skyline
of a city
that is still dark at night:
across the street
is
a wall of flats twenty stories tall and
of
the hundreds of windows, only a handful
are lit. I count them.
Seven.

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“Carisomaprodol” (Car-E-so-map-row-doll)

He was in a bar and decided
to begin by saying
“Your hair is so blonde- it’s beautiful. I used
to be blonde, platinum blonde,
like
Paris Hilton.” But when
he walks up to her
he says
“I used to be Paris Hilton.”

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“Aerosol Paint”

Children born in the Nineties mistake
the fragments of the Berlin Wall for
Facebook.

networking event icebreakerz

i was just trying to watch a second netflix movie

when a friend called me and invited me

to a party in the lower east side.

i said ok i'll be at the train in five min.

he was drunk and conversational.

on the train we talked about women i think.

we got beer for the party and went up

to the apartment. but, my friend was

mistaken about the party it was next week.

but we drank a beer there anyways and

talked about kissing women during sex

when you're not in love with them,

which was hard for my friend to do,

for some reason.

on the train back to brooklyn we talked about how

he perceived me having three personalities:

"just paying rent" "advertising meets ad busters" and "artist/hustler"

which was confusing to me because they all

seemed the same except maybe the ad busters thing,

which probably is just residual progressive education

interfering with my career. the i said

"oh my god what are my other personalities?"

and he said "i've never met your friends."

we drank the rest of the beer at my apartment

and listened to the cleaners from venus.

he went home and we agreed to possibly have

dinner later in the week. i looked at dump.fm

and drank the last beer. i thought, i'll clean

up my apartment in the morning.

“Eleven Sixty-Seven” (A Poghem)

“Eleven Sixty-Seven”

A bad blackout is like a bad childhood: you find yourself in pain, filth, and misery with only a dim memory of how things came to be so bad and the following selfish but unshakable conviction: because you cannot remember how this situation arose, you are absolved of responsibility for it.

That is the worst case. The best is that you wake in a mess of clothing and throw pillows on a clean hardwood floor (all the more impressive given that hardwood is so difficult to keep clean- moreso even than tile, and much moreso than carpet) and to your right is an orange curtain which holds back three-quarters each of the light, wind, and noise against it: just enough that you slept well, but not so much as to hide the reassuring reality that it is mid-day in San Francisco.

You have woken in the hand of a benevolent God, and although you don't know it, you said something you shouldn't have last night- nothing terrible, but a social faux pas- and He stepped in on your behalf. He excused your behavior by saying: "You have to remember, you're dealing with the raver generation here." It was a white lie, and He told it for you, and everyone laughed, and all was well.

You notice that one of the pillows is in fact a seat cushion. You find the chair that is missing its cushion, and tie the cushion on. You must have slept well: your hands are steady, no hint of a shake.

You tie a neat orange bow on the first try, with the loops exactly as long as the loose ends and exactly as long as each other.

“Spec Sheet” (A Short Poghem)

“Spec Sheet”

the spec sheet begins

as all do:

by telling you that you are the proud

owner

of the best product

ever made, and

Do Not

Ingest

Disassemble

Reverse Engineer

Use in a Manner Inconsistent with the Labeling or in Violation of the Laws which Apply in the Country, State, Jurisdiction, or Community in Which You Reside

Expose to Excessive Temperatures

Freeze

Submerge

further it informs you

that with this product you can create something

“beautiful or brutal”

which seems strange

the use of “or”

as if beauty and brutality are somehow opposed

which seems absurd

as if a car can be White or European

or

a man can be Brunette or Tall

or

it can be Seven O’Clock or Raining.

didn't make the cut but i still kind of like it

College One Show Club Award 2011 City Harvest

CW/Direct/Edit Erik Stinson

Late February Poghums

“Saturday, the Twenty-Sixth February, Twenty-Eleven, Part One”

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“What’s that?”
“Water.”
“Oh, you don’t drink?”
“Oh, I do drink, but I also drink water.”
“Oh, yeah. Me, too, sometimes.”

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“Saturday, the Twenty-Sixth February, Twenty-Eleven, Part Two”

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You knew I was displeased, angry with myself. You wanted to soothe me.

“Oh well. Bad photos, but good friends.”

I smiled, and you believed me- my smile. I never believed you- what you had said.

Friends?

By the time you’re our age, friends will last maybe sixty years- sixty years if you chose friends who eat right, don’t drink, don’t smoke, get eight hours of sleep a night- and who the hell wants friends like that? I can see that we are aging already. The whites of your eyes are yellowing, slightly. They're a little yellower than mine, but my teeth are a little yellower than yours. I don't know if you bleach them. I don't think you do. I wouldn't give a damn either way. We are aging- our blood gives it away- the red iron. Iron rusts.

Photographs?

Photographs are made from silver. Photographs last for fucking ever. Silver never rusts.