Clark Coolidge
Our hymns scared your kid, but did
You ever wonder why? I want to say
It’s flowing, as I take it in, the
Delicious blood of Jesus. But we’re
Not sure—do you sit on that doily, or pray by it?
Passion? It’s more like the batshit of the Christ. I interviewed a group of the visitors as
They came out of the Orientation Theater,
Who seemed moved yes but quite freaked out.
And I know exactly why. We need to stop.
I rescued more than 2,800 Austrians held
By the Probe—using positive rock music.
We were on ABC Family for a year.
When I saw what they did with me,
As a faith figure, I felt confused.
Church
God is running through you so hard
You crumple into your entertainment center.
Get a tan, you pray, run,
Blisters and lesions on your mouth and your tongue.
With your Bible open the pain is a joke,
You hold onto a girl’s hand while her hair never moves.
She has on a dress vest of thick red mealy fabric, (gestures)
A flight of zippers, this cheap navy blue skirt.
I agree—her excruciatingly holding out was hot,
Intellectually, but why try that here?
You could punch holes into most of the
Strip’s architectural follies with a child’s golf club toy,
“The same goes for our Megachurch, brother.
But we won’t do it to these women.” What about
That song your daughter did? That kid is religious,
I almost wish we could harvest that belief level
For our next big outreach—we’re going to
Trick God into coming out of his hiding place.
Annual Competition
I’d like to look more into these
Writer Centers ads, especially if somebody can
Fill me in on the nature of, why.
You can’t center writing! We’re done now,
I’m doing the, the walkthrough with Amy.
I hope they’re still selling that soup after two.
Wake up, little sleazy, wake up. (sings)
Hurry fast—something’s eating you.
If only the tide would thunder upstream and
Scour away some of these people and the things
They appear to be using as dining room tables?
Each workshop student pays me $45,000.
They get my email list their second day. They think
They’ve got the contacts too easily, they start talking
About me in front of me. Students—pack it up a bit.
Try and kill it then. Poetry is not the Arcade,
And neither will I die.
The bells and reviews shoot off
In all directions, but our light-hearted
Overlords seem alright with me staying on.
No one said it, but I cried out, what, too soon—
She turns and looks like yep she’s going to eat me,
Before she does, I’m switching the entire sytem to on.
She’s still going to eat me though!
Workshop
She was a diamond in the fine,
Either more or less than a poet, but
Absolutely not a poet. Fairly professional!
Quite detailed...I mean, she had a body,
She’d only express the best topics around.
And could easily manage any sugar spikes—
She displayed this divinity she seemed to
Have borrowed—directly from his face.
It was as if God itself pointed that key light
Onto Ron’s terrible skin—we instantly knew.
Our meeting room felt like the Hague, filled
With raging speakers and educators, the outcomes
Resinous; no, I mean resonating outcomes.
And flirty, hard-drinking 8th graders,
Who were also big-time rabbis. Man
Would they tell us all about Masada.
The Poet
Deepening your indifference to your close friends over recent time,
Is that they’re reforming the guys’ old teenaged gang, the Artist
Kidnappers, and nobody told you yet.
It grieves me to hear
About my students creeping on their peers,
Apparently with my endorsement, but that ain’t real.
It’s still terrifying to be doubted. It’s probably been shown
Across what you’ve been reading—exasperating non-specifics,
Generic dialogs, songs with breathtakingly cold terms. Legal?
Yes. Holy? God no.
It’s a blessed relief knowing I will be instantly forgotten.
“When?” After a fucking long time! They’ll need to burn me
Off the Main Stage. “Not if you fall from high enough up first.”
Well said. The gotcha moment transcends culture, whatever
Your directing style is, even two weeks in South Europe, drinking,
Partying with people from England.
You can’t deny the milky writing is on the wall—Strap Fever.
Would you really live there? The mission to Europa needs to be over.
They’re spitting money at you, all that way. One big surprise?
The vintners all checked out. Their daughters are beginning
The long migration back from Wesleyan, through Berlin.
Whole family lines are lathered up with freezing allure,
Back in Napa. “I’m so sure!” they say, as they
“Cross across these inexpressible islands.”
