ED SKOOG

HOLIDAY RADIO SHOW

I left in a weird hurry

that must have perplexed my family:

to rise from the turkey,

mumble about frozen pipes

back at school an hour's drive

west of home, but friends,

I may have been tripping.

And the pot I put in the stuffing

had caught me off-guard.

This goofy secret shames me now,

should have then.

But I had had enough of them,

all seven. I was nineteen.

My family, stoned,

was not suffering,

and I'd be fool to sing that I was.

But I thought to live might be to suffer.

Campus movies from France were awash

with such half-philosophies,

plus Buñuels's Discrete Charm

of the Bourgeoisie. My arm

hung out the window, cold.

I thought heat was wasteful.

I had records by the crateful

in the trunk, bound for the real reason

I'd bolted, to show up prompt

for my first shift as volunteer deejay.

I steered and composed my playlist:

Slint, Fugazi, Mudhoney,

tapping my fingers through the towns

of Silver Lake, Belvue, St. Mary.

First published in TRP’s 25th Anniversary issue, Fall 2003; copyright © 2003 by Tar River Poetry.

All rights reserved.