Nathan
Pritts
I heard somewhere
that the reason squirrels run
in front of cars so often
is that the spinning tires
generate some type of noise,
a kind of siren song
that draws them on
& tells them they are
safe.
So they stand defiant
& carefree in the center
of the road & their
population
is reduced because of this
one flaw.I’m not sure why
I care about those unlucky
squirrels;
there seem to be thousands
living in my front yard oak
alone.One morning,
Andi dragged me to the window
to show me all the squirrels
crowded
around the trunk.An
infestation,
she said.This was right before
the big wheel of our love
turned,
the sounds of it spinning
drowning out any sense of
self-
preservation either of us had
left:
some nights I’d find myself
driving the dark farm road
to her house, blindly
fulfilling our agreement
that one of us must always
want
the other while the other
was ready to move on.
One of those nights
I last second stopped my car
to avoid a woodchuck
that’d wandered onto the road.
In the headlight’s haze I saw
it
frozen, staring straight
ahead,
its back up, literally scared
stiff.
Who knows how long he stayed
like that, trying to decide
if it would hurt more
to move.Who knows
why his response to danger
chained him to the wooden mast
of his own fears
instead of letting him run,
trying to keep time
with that crazy song buzzing
in every corner of his mammal
brain,
telling him he was invincible,
that it couldn’t possibly hurt
to take a few more steps.
All the whys & wherefores
are
hackneyed & all the
reasons stale;
today I’m glad to have a life.
My scalp takes on the pinkish
sheen
indicative of good fortune.
Existence, friends, is
hair-raising.
A base hit gets you to first
but
I’m greedy: I’d like to hit it
out of the park
& listen to everyone cheer
when I slide home.The umpire
clears his throat & yells
“Safe!”
It’s only the slippery fabric
of this exquisite world that
keeps us
dry but make no mistake: such
earthy satin is not meant for
the timid
to caress between chapped
fingers.
I’d like to take the wheel, to
grab
the proverbial bull by his
proverbial horns
& wrestle him to the
ground & when
my shrink says I see I’ll give
him
such a pinch he’ll learn quick
not to mess with a
matador.He’ll learn
to let me fight all those
knock-down,
drag-out brawls I pick with
myself by myself.
Sometimes what comes hurtling
towards us
aren’t bullets or trains,
nothing
we can hope to outrun or ever
be stronger than.
A lesser man’s kryptonite
might be just the lipstick
half moon
left on her coffee cup, the
obvious thirst
in her eyes that no man on her
planet
could quench.Sure, I’m no
Superman
but it didn’t take x-ray
vision to see
what she wanted inside.So
while Superman
might be able to refuse his
temptations heroically,
I left the earthbound bagel
shop
with my outerspace princess
& headed to her place,
a quick note on Lois’ counter
to explain
that my planet was blowing up
& I needed to leave.
&
THIS ONE IS FOR CAROL ROSS
because when she says
I-haven’t-made-my-bed,
except-to-change-the-sheets,
in-three-&-a-half-years;
but-I-have-changed-the-sheets,
she really means
a kind of revelation—Carol
Ross wants me
to know all there is to know
about Carol Ross
but she doesn’t want to say
it, she can’t say it:
disheveled beds breed
disheveled minds or vice
versa.But what bearing does
one’s physical condition
really have on one’s mental
state?For three long days
I drove through Texas,
stopping to sleep &
eat &, for three long
days, I was followed by the police,
diabolical minions of the
law.They switched cars often
to make me doubt; they’d like
nothing better than to see me
fold like cheap bed clothes
laundered too many times.
Every morning they’d be parked
up the street, waiting
for me so they could begin
their chase.But do we really
want to catch that which we
chase?Or vice versa?
Every morning I’d watch my
hands shake; I’d leave
my bed a mess.Each of those
three long days I wore
a sweater a pretty girl had
slept in; I could still smell her
in its chunky wool cords &
it calmed me.On the third day
I crossed into New Mexico
& the sweater came off;
on the third day I changed.The
shirt I put on smelled good
in a
sweater-a-pretty-girl-slept-in kind of way
& it confused me.Maybe the
scent I thought was hers
was really mine all along.I
felt cheated.I was
unable to make my bed for
years after that; Texas
still scares me.I wish I knew
what I was trying
to tell you, something about
A) the author’s inability
to love himself or others or
B) the nature of paranoia,
which is to say the question
is not “Am I paranoid?”
but “Am I paranoid enough?”
the only answer to which
is “No” but only after they’ve
gotten you or C) beautiful
& total laziness when
faced with a tangle of sheets.
How long can it take to
straighten things out?
Sometimes I wonder
whatever happened to the
people
I used to know & don’t
anymore.
But notice
I was careful to use that
word
sometimes—only sometimes
I wonder—because I want it
made clear
that I have other things on my
mind,
that I’m curious
but not overwhelmingly so.
Though, really, everyday
I find myself wondering
whatever happened to all those
kids who sat behind me
or next to me or in front of
me
in all those classes
over all those years &
I wonder whatever happened
to all the people
I’ve worked with at all the
different
jobs I’ve worked &
I’m thinking now most particularly
of the guys who worked with me
at the warehouse,
graveyard shift, all of us
not necessarily
dissatisfied but certainly
forced to come to terms
with what we never thought
would be our lives &
hellbent
on bluffing through.
Early mornings
we’d leave out the back way
& we’d see our breath
in front of us
just hanging there.
Is it possible
for a person to become
too aware of what it takes
to keep them alive?
Footprints in early snow
dust reminded us
we weren’t getting away easy.
Most nights we’d drink
until dawn & stare
straight up
to see who’d look away first
& then
which one of us would look
back.
ARE
YOU THERE GOD? IT’S ME, NATE
A tornado roughs its way
through town, chops down
a whole city block with just
the edge of its gusty palm
& not a single person is
hurt.
Is that a miracle?These days
anything could be a sign.
When I see people huddled
together
talking it makes me think
something big is about to go
down.
Is that how faith works?
You tell yourself you know
what the other guy is thinking
& it almost doesn’t matter
if you’re right.Faith is my
fuel;
brute desire sloshes around
in my tank but alas the gauge
is desperately low.I’d love
to know what it feels like
to have somebody on constant
speed dial, to be able to
share
every little thing, though
the danger is you lose track
of why you’re living.
Are we the things we do
or are we all talk?
Whether or not I turn out
to be the hero of my own life
is still anybody’s guess
but let’s hope I’m the guy
flying in to save me
at the last minute.Who else
would risk the speeding
bullets?
But, tell me, how do we know
when it’s time to take off
the costume & let someone
else
leap the tall buildings?
A tornado swept through town,
shouldered its way
through the streets &
didn’t
kill anyone.Now the skies are
clear
& you wouldn’t know
anything even happened.
No one looks glad to be alive.
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Last updated: May 1, 2001.