Scott Laudati

Just 300 Miles To Salina

Those men under the piers they spit silica
but it never comes out as easy as it went in.
The dust hides little anchors
and even after the job is done they hang around
like Christmas ornaments still up in July.
Some things decay much faster than others.
Nothing is uglier than the path to Salina.
I tried to skip the middle chapters
but the compass only points one direction.
Were those years on the docks worth the cold?
The ice water getting between my gloves and sleeves?
Eating pills to stave off the pain.
Praying for a low tide so I wouldn’t drown
if I fell off the barge.
And now my father won’t talk to me.
The beginning and end mean nothing to him.
The pain of the middle is the glory.
Damian punches my arm and I ask how far we are from Salina.
Just 300 miles.
I’ve seen the country now and I’ve forgotten most of it,
but not that landscape between us and Salina.
The American Sahara.
The space where all things found the middle
and civilization rolled back.
A place no one has ever missed.
I can think so
clearly when there’s no one listening.
I even remember how unawed the antelope looked
kneeling under the mothership’s beam.
Once upon a time all land looked like this land
and it won’t be long now before it all does again.

 

What Does Your Couch Smell Like?

I only think about sleep now.
Not the afterparty
or the stage
or what part of my poem I should yell at the audience
to hide my lazy words
so they think what I’m saying is important.
I had a love seat in Kansas City that sagged in the middle.
The bed three people hand hung themselves above in Belle.
The air mattress in St Louis was okay but after
a bottle of Jameson’s and 10 Budweiser’s so is anywhere.
When I was young this is all I wanted,
to see every statue in every square,
Confederate or conqueror, it didn’t matter.
All I know now is the parking lots,
how to dry a towel on a backseat,
which barista is most likely to give me a free beer.
It’s all material for the great story, right?
All I have to do is write it.
A day off in Oklahoma maybe?
A white pillow under my head then
coffee from anywhere but a gas station?
When did I get too old for it to matter?
I have to collect 1000 nights to write a poem,
and none of them end in a good night’s sleep.

 

Scott Laudati lives in NYC where he runs Bone Machine with his dog, Josie. He is the author of Play The Devil and Camp Winapooka. Visit him anywhere @ScottLaudati