Episode 128: Put Your Pants Back On!

We just had to start this episode with a reassurance that everyone was dressed, which you’ll understand as soon as you read or listen to “Pneuma”, the poem by BJ Soloy that kicks everything off. The bonkers energy of a country and a world overflowing with bad news and tragedy is juxtaposed with some very real tenderness and self reflection in two astounding pieces by Soloy. These astutely paced poems are brimming with the overwhelm of modern life while threading in historical references (Brown vs. Board of Education, Troost Avenue, and scud missiles, for starters). Some other links we think you’ll like: Sapphic stanzas Marion's IMDB credit At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Samantha Neugebauer, Dagne Forrest, Jason Schneiderman, Lisa Zerkle, Isabel Petry BJ Soloy is the author of Birth Center in Corporate Woods (forthcoming from Black Lawrence Press), Our Pornography and other disaster songs (Slope Editions, 2019), and Selected Letters, a chapbook out with New Michigan Press. He lives and dies in Des Moines, home of the whatever. Pneuma Put your pants back on, America. It’s four in the morning & also five, three, & two, simultaneously, you big lug. Plus, there’s snow. In this light, really any light, my nose looks like a tired potato got punched in its mute mouth. With any light on, I want to see other people when I look in the mirror, when I slouch in this bathroom booth where I hope to die on the shitter, like an American, like one of yours. Clinton, TN is any other frowsy town with a cock & balls scribbled on its playground slide & square pitbulls straining at their chains. America, I came to bed late as always. You roll over, softly surprised & then delighted, offering, “I forgot where I was.” I’m yawning, breathing just to get oxygen on this fire. Well, tonight is not the only place I am tonight. Beyond me & between me light bulbs hiccup & burble & a frenzied squirrel loses its map of maples & restarts. Maybe we ought to take what we’ve still got & laminate it in frost & then salt & then the gold leaf over spring’s pat rapture. There are things I’ve learned already this young soft year I don’t know what to do with: one gets a pregnancy test when in the ER for their attempt on their own life. What to name that baby? I worry I’m doing this wrong. I’ve got beans soaking, sharps & meds hidden, the last dank well swill of our bank account miraculously transformed into boxed wine. Winter’s here with its expressive eyebrows & doomed neighborhood cats under every car. You yawn so I kiss you & you taste better than free food, but you can’t sleep & I try to stay up reading but layers of exhaustion—wet blankets on this piss whisper of a fire—keep accumulating. I worry you’ll do it right next time & I’m still attached to this day of ours, whatever day it is. Benesh It’s been a long night & your mouth already tasted like rain an hour ago. Writing often of the sky instead of tasting it, I look to the sconces & the sconces look fake & their light looks fake & I have authentic responses to both, which is how storms start. As seasons digest themselves (a short talk on short talks), holiday cards become less applicable & so more affordable & Fox 8 or whatever news vans circle the weather or immanent site of tragedy tourism. Some nights I go out & walk the sidewalk in socks or bare feet longer than I’d meant to & notice the crystal glass & homely bends & feel deeply the Troost neighborhood. My ears circle in on themselves, stereo sinkholes, by which I mean I’m eavesdropping & I’m sorry. I’ve had bad teeth forever & so got online & bought God’s vibrator as a toothbrush & sunburned my mirror & stood boldly before the middle-aged self. White as I am, I trust most the islands that kill their first tourists. Three weeks’ swim away, a cargo ship full of luxury cars continues to burn in the Atlantic. A mother about a mile from right here killed her dog & decapitated her son after calling the cops on the devil. The news: The snows. The Olympics. Rubble-crusted outskirts of Kiev. The soft snoring of our toddler. What do we do? I dither. I stand numb before the light. I look deeply. I look like Fabio if, instead of an angular chin, his face flesh just sort of dangled & then if also that formless dangle continued on down the rest of the frame. My point is I have long hair right now. A Hadean earth. A wobbling star. A thought floating in like pickled nimbus, ghost fart. In the mirror, I am an amplified echo of my middle school self making muscles at himself, waiting for hair to grow, SCUD missiles arcing across the nightly news downstairs. Tonight, I got news off Facebook, which makes me middle-aged again & sad. You’d already gone to bed when I found out Robert died. I didn’t wake you up. I didn’t even check you were asleep. You needed a night & this news is not the night you needed. A neighbor is yelling at something, maybe himself, & the still-lengthening night repeats. I rarely call in favors, but every time I do, I claim to do it rarely, but still, please sleep. Please go to sleep or keep sleeping. He was thirty-three. It’s later still & your mouth is full of rain. I’ll tell you in the morning.