Downey's "Classics" Presents: The Latest 3

Apparently, the best way for a writer to make a name for himself today is to do various writing jobs that doubles as an advertisement for his blog until he is ready to write a novel, which pays more than a job writing for a magazine. Sure, the writer could just skip a step and write the novel right away, but that shit is difficult, and without something resembling a cultivated audience, it would arrive in bookstores to general apathy. And that's even if it makes it into stores.

So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is...uh, who knows. Enjoy.

"The Latest 3"
by John Downey

Bells hit the ceiling, telling me the weather,
And that we need to get better insulation for the roof.
There's no chiming, just pitterpattering drums,
An indication of the pulse of the household.
In the kitchen, Richard's promoting violence as a way to peace,
And his son, Shannon, listens with eager ears.
There's a step-aerobics stepstool around here somewhere;
It's probably being used as a doorstop.
The lights work better after a swift knock.
The TV has a black bar on the left of the screen, but otherwise, it's fine.
The playroom lives up to its name.
The house is an unsightly bright red; Richard's going to paint it over the summer,
Or whenever it stops raining, whichever comes first.
The trip to Skate 3 is postponed for another day.
I climb back up into bed and stare at the ceiling,
Wondering how long this eden is going to last.

"That's Nice, John, But It's Not Funny Enough"

I thought I’d slept my last good sleep.

Then:

Narcoleptic double dreams,

The inside of my eyelids tattooed with

Pictures of Michael and I—

Twins, almost—

Stealing dreams from those more liquid than us,

Chewing apples with eyeballs for seeds

(and getting the joke),

And seeing myself smash a wood bat over my daughter’s head

Thinking that I’m doing her a favor.

Thought I should spend as much time

Awake as I can,

As one minute awake

Is one minute not spent at my child’s bedside

Playing Whac-A-Kid.

Thought that consuming the grain at the bottom of the bottle would chase them away,

And it did,

But then I dreamt of the Sandman sipping Jack Daniels.

Thought that I should resign myself

To a small room

And two glowing magic boxes.

Then:

You told me that I deserve more.

And I believed you.

I sing myself a lullaby now.

You’ll hear it someday.