SoQ repreZENT

I feel sleazy. I am not out in the heat doing physical labor, like my father once did, like my mother once did, like my sister does on Arcata farms, like my friends do in foundation pits and cherry factories.

I feel sleazy about that.

Have done it. Building sheds, canning, gutting and cleaning filthy apartments. But right now I'm just a slip of here and that, a waste of water.

Thus: sleaze.

I wrote a SoQ poem because my new SoQ life "amuses" me. The rich people in this town smell of plastic rosewood, maple cures (in bottles, in bottles of maple pills) and sloths (dead sloths).

But this has nothing to do with all that.

It's actually okay, I'm doing well. I've drafted three new short stories. Okay, raise your hand if you give a shit. You shouldn't. Turn to your favorite news source for pictures of charred buses, useless shrugs, a conflict dreary with thousands of years and gallons of hatred.

I wish this had something to do with all that.

I wish I could write something about that.

Should I?

This is two posts in one. That was the first post.

The next post: I wrote a SoQ poem because my new SoQ life "amuses" me. I couldn't stay the course. It sounds like James Tate eating confetti-colored mints. Oh well. I'm glad it's not too quiet.

Now That I Own a Door

Leave you outside, you said,
with the spider on my doorbell.
Well, maybe him? Does he want to
join me and drag-race an armored car?
Fill my molars with melted honey bears?
Stay up until two playing the mandolin
with me, lift me -- it has a nice ring.
Listen, kid: all of your friends are
burnt sod and none of them want to hear
the name June laughed from a tailgate
outside a stadium of grass like tall women
thinking about something else when
they lean into bus poles, when they
won't push the door before a sigh.
Your best bets are cable receipts
and neighborhood popsicle brats
in Hulk Hogan t-shirts, asking after
more kids. No, sorry. Just a crust
of sleet -- but lemme check the burners
twice, then the last gimp of my Crest.
I will find one yet to let back in.


A.S. Galvan said...

Rest is not sleaze.

Write about whatever you want.

What is SoQ?

Mike Young said...

School of Quietude. Ron Silliman coined the term -- it is nebulous but refers mostly to wry NPR poetry written about domestic shit while sitting at a kitchen table or somesuch.

Hot Jesus; that's a terrible sentence.

jess rowan said...

But that second one's a hot plate o' goodness.

This post makes me feel okay about wanting to give up and then it tells me I shouldn't anyway. Sometimes I just want to squeeze acid out of my eyes.

Kudos on the story starts.

Bryan Coffelt said...

don't feel like a sleaze.

i've started stories, too.

i'm working, splitting boards.
the sun is splitting my fingertips, and i am bleeding on the joists.

the thunder creams my joints
there was one blast today
singed my first born.

the carpet in here
is not as nice
as it probably is there.

Mike Young said...

Yes, this carpet costs us $250, though.

The Executives.




The Executives.

Bryan Coffelt said...


this poem is really quiet

what is the blue paste

your sadness?

Mike Young said...

The blue paste is just blue paste -- symbolism isn't real because people are too impatient to deal with it. According to this logic, airports are also not real. It's blue paste because I was dressed up as a smerf.

Mike Young said...

I changed the blue paste.