Bygone

Bygone

We talked about
opening an old-timey gym

Strength cables and jump ropes
would sit in milk crates by the door

The weights would be globed
at the end of unlabeled bars

The exercise bikes would
have a giant front wheel

Medicine balls would be
everywhere

For wardrobe, we would require unitards
preferably with stripes
as well as handlebar mustaches and
stiff hair slathered in pomade

What about the ladies?

Well, there's a row of domed hair dryers
in the lobby

But shouldn't you go home
and put the roast in the oven?

I mean, we're going for
authenticity here.

We Like Ike.

To a Twenty-Two-Year Old, New to the City (Part One)

I

Thy first bedroom shall be walk-through
but the fire escape thy sanctuary
Thou shalt crank A Tribe Called Quest
from tinny speakers
and drink High Life from a bottle at sunset
waiting for friends to yell from below
to join thee in summer eve's merriment

From thy roof, thou shalt see all of
Brooklyn laid out before thee
The F train winding up the hill
toward Smith-Ninth Station
Manhattan and Jersey City sparkling
Lady Liberty peeking above the BQE

One too-imbibed midsummer's night
thou shalt sleep on thy roof
Dawn will find thee dirty, groggy, cold
Let thy view warm thy soul

Thou shalt splash thy face, tie thy hair back,
and ride the M train to Queens
Rumble over Bushwick and peer through
acid-etched windows
and remember all that thou hast

Love Poem From One Monster Truck to Another

I watched you
Perched on the mound
Motor purring
Shaking on your haunches

It reminded me
of the time we were in Nashville
The Meineke Car Care
WRECKFEST

You showed that little Escort
what a Monster can do
His dash smashed into his wheel base
Oil and wiper fluid staining the dirt

And I know it’s just our job
I know we envy their lot
Their highway-to-garage lives
Saturdays wiped and buffed
at the car wash downtown

But the look in your eyes
The passion for destruction
Made me believe that for you
it was about more

Than the applause
than the flashbulbs
than putting on a show

And I wanted you to drive next to me
Put your little door handle in mine
Ram the daylights out of the non-believers
The Tauruses, the Camrys, the Neon’s of the world

And know that when you Rev
You Rev for us all
All of us big-wheeled beauties
Longing for that perfect crush

Meet me in Memphis
at SUPER SLAM 2
I’ll show you the crushing
we were meant to do

George W. Bush's 25 Things

My Fellow Americans,
I hope you're all settling in nicely to the new administration. I miss the times we shared - the laughs, the tears, and most of all, the honor I felt representing such a proud people every single day. To stay in touch with the American people, my daughter Jenna told me I should write a note with 25 things about myself for something called the facebook. I'll try anything once.

1. Girls always told me I was the most handsome Bush boy. Jeb is still jealous.

2. One told me she liked my big bushy eyebrows best - maybe cause my name is Bush? That's funny.

3. Should I get eyebrow implants? They're looking a little thin.

4. What about hair dye, America?

5. Jenna just told me that facebook doesn't mean I'm supposed to talk about my face.

6. I used to love sitting on poppa's lap riding a mower around our yard in Houston.

7. A couple of Mexicans take care of my lawn now. I offer them chips and salsa because it makes them feel at home.

8. I'm starting a speaking tour soon. What should I say?

9. 9/11.

10. Remember when Al Gore kept talking about that lockbox?

11. 9/11.

12. I still wear the flight suit sometimes.

13. I miss waking up so close to my office. Now I have to go downstairs.

14. John Kerry forgot Poland.

15. Obama is 800 billion dollars in debt in three weeks, and I was a bad president?

16. Back to my face - The first time I noticed that I had crow's feet was when I caught my reflection in the window as I flew over the devastation in the Gulf Coast.

17. It was horrible.

18. Dick Cheney doesn't have my new phone number. Shhhhh.

19. Enduring Iraqi freedom is the foundation upon which the potential for Democratic societies in the volatile Middle East must be built.

20. Ditto Afghanistan I hear.

21. I'm gonna need a trip to Camp David before I finish all these.

22. Oh. Right.

23. What about a Dave and Busters (George and Laura's?) instead of a presidential library?

24. Laura cuts up my pretzels for me now.

25. I'm sorry.

Seventh Avenue

When it rains
on the corner of 130th street
The water level rises to meet the curb
Floods over the edge

Men wearing jackets caked in dirt
Trudge through the puddle
Pushing refrigerators onto the sidewalk
New appliances for a new condominium

I try to follow their lead
but my shoe has a leak
and cannot keep all the water
at bay

I can't seem to miss the flood
completely

Taste, Part Two

As his tongue hit the wet pavement, Mr. Lepic felt the sharp prick of a pine needle. The Christmas tree that had shed on that spot belonged to Lamar and Sheila Warren, a married couple who lived in an old brownstone on the block. Mr. Lepic knew Mr. Warren, but was unaware of this fact. Mr. Warren was the owner of a deli/grocery on AC Powell Blvd., and everyday Mr. Lepic walked by and nodded hello through the window. Mr. Warren appreciated the gesture, always thought of Mr. Lepic as "one of the good ones" on a block that was being overrun by entitled pricks from downtown. Mr. Warren had reason to worry - a developer had already come by to take a look at his home, claiming that the lease didn't make clear whether the property could legally be owned by an individual and not the city. He thought about this when he dragged the tree from his living room to the sidewalk, scraping off the twig that stabbed Mr. Lepic's tongue.

Mr. Lepic tasted acid from yesterday's rain, grease dripped from a slice of pizza, rubber from the bottom of new sneakers, hair left by the new Bijon terrier adopted up the block...

Mr. Lepic stood up and brushed off his pants. There is too much here, he thought. Too much to taste. From now on, I'll stick to wine.

(You know how some people are "completists" for certain bands or artists or writers? That's who this is for. If you're just dying to read everything ever written by Oscar McPhee, first of all, seek help, second of all, sorry this piece was not...dare I say...OSCAR WORTHY! Next one will be better. I hope.)

Taste, Part One

On January 2nd, 2009, Bernard Lepic stopped on 123rd Street between Adam Clayton Powell Jr. and Frederick Douglass Boulevards. His knees cracked as he knelt on the sidewalk and placed his bare palms on the cement. He felt the surface, paused thoughtfully at the old gum and shoe prints that had worn their way in. He admired the grass that peeked out from the crack between slabs, scraggly brown blades that had no idea they wouldn't survive the winter. An old woman shook her head as she waddled past, and two teenagers laughed and shouted about the crazy ass cracker who needs his medication. Mr. Lepic looked only at the pavement, and then he stuck his tongue out and leaned in.

Mr. Lepic is widely known in the foodie community as an expert taster. He can identify the age and vintage of any wine or cheese. These talents are not unusual, but his gift ventures further, into areas that most food critics would consider beneath their wealth of expertise. Mr. Lepic won a potato chip tasting contest in Des Moines, Iowa in February 2006, not only correctly naming every brand, but even the date that the chips were manufactured. It is in hand-made foods that Mr. Lepic's brillance shines brightest; he can identify the bakery and, in special cases, the worker that made any croissant, muffin, bagel, bear claw, or danish on the island of Manhattan.

Tune in for part two whenever I get around to writing it!!! (within the next week)