Thomas Gibney is a twenty-three year old poet from Nashville, Tennessee. His chapbook, Poems You Read Out Loud, was published by Scantily Clad Press. His poems have also appeared at www.inknode.com, powwowtime.wordpress.com, and you say. say, an anthology published by Uphook Press.
What You Are
It’s no surprise—what you are is not ruthless, not self-righteous or even selfish at times. What is there to expect from you. What’s wrong with you is you can’t savor jealousy, you cannot dream, wish, exert force or motion. You can’t go to bed with your pride. At times I wonder what country could have raised you. You can’t even love your own vices. Look, do you need some help? Do we really have to go over this again? You can’t just be unyielding, can you? What’s wrong with you is you’re not fit for this day in age. You’re not crass. You’re not manic or pretentious either. What does it matter?—it’s neither here nor there. It’s you and your chronic lack of baggage. You’re incapable of scorn. You refuse insensitivity. You don’t belong to either one. Can’t you just choose a side? You’re not the only one in the room, okay. You can’t just acquiesce to vengeance. To egoness, to helplessness. To the profane imp that surely gnaws inside you. But what do you do? Not a thing. You don’t live like your fangs depended on it. You won’t even take the money. Do you need some incentive from me? Are your wires crossed? What’s wrong with you?
Para que la tomen en lugar. There are so many seeds on which to count. The belch which had led to a vomit. The omelet held a sinister glare inside it. Bees’ puddles. Bees’ puddles on which the roaches. The monument’s shadow. The grave carving. The grave, grave carving. But here, just these miniature stilts in the washed fluorescence. A wobbling giant. Roots, tiny filaments in the ears. The brilliant fist of moon. The beer fountain flows with such sincerity like you’ve never, I mean you’ve never. The guard in his circus-issue leotard is calling. That pile of crushed beer cans is not necessary, sir. The catatonic light above the stable. The moon. The tiny filaments, I mean. Who here can tell us which is the punch and which is the yak. And that giant dwarf lumbering… the payphone is ringing…
What happens is we forget,
so when you get happy and I get happy
and we all get drunk and cry a bit
the world feels normal again, we’re back on our heads.
Understand that poetry is a chemical
imbalance, clouds seem more auspicious,
even the last light kneeled before your face
betrays a subtle persistence,
I know tomorrow it’ll hurt but my liver has clever
ways of chewing around the nasty parts.
Only the silt remains.
The sludge in my head is an agile green,
essentially tonal in nature,
prone to ecstatic fits of what.
To regulate. To regulate. To regulate.