2020 – Canisius Quadrangle

A Fresh Round of Tornadoes

Miles Keefe — Mon, 28 Sep 2020 21:14:04 +0000

We look to the garden,
seizing the ripest morsels.
We follow the tendrils toward sustenance,
sense the closeness of soil.
 
We are not uprooting, but claiming.
(I pluck a heaving tomato
too heavy for its vine.
I have saved it from certain fate
of fall and senseless rotting.)
 
Our pride is in the bounty.
And in our power over this earth.
 
                          -
 
The radio reports weather for the nation:
“A fresh round of tornadoes.”
 
Now we would pray for fruit already fallen
and sapped unsubstantial, scattered;
pray for no harvest, no pulling up roots.
Place hope in tendrils holding fast
to last until they shrivel.
Now we pray for a stale, burned-out tornado;
we fear the awesome power
of a fresh round.

Blue Raspberry

Miles Keefe — Mon, 28 Sep 2020 21:30:39 +0000

hey stranger
that I see walking to class.
I wish you’d lift your eyes
and stop staring at the ground
so, you can see me,
the girl you once called sister.
I can’t believe I became
a regular at
a fucking vape store
for you.

Evolution

Miles Keefe — Thu, 19 Nov 2020 01:32:39 +0000

In an alternate universe,
I am still a fish,
only because no one of my species
has had the bright idea to sprout
legs and walk on to land,
where there’s better air and better food.
 
Stuck in murky water, thick and muddy,
a shade somewhere between green and brown,
the same color as my mucus coated skin,
I’m floating fin to fin with wide-eyed
mouth breathers who suck in
as much dirt and sediment as they do
microscopic meals.
 
Feeling my soon to be
webbed feet push against the gills
I so desperately want to lose,
I watch a fly dance
above the surface and listen
to his muffled buzzes mocking me.
I look around, see what I’m not,
look up, see what I could be,
and convince myself into being the first.

Hamilton Beach

Miles Keefe — Mon, 28 Sep 2020 21:23:39 +0000

Deep in the realm of sleep
as the darkness steals me away for sleep I hear you
Metallic clanging,whirling, and grinding as you drown yourself for me
Sacrificing your solid form to bring a light to my eyes
As I hear that first Drip drip drip
slide down the side of the carafe I shed a tear for my selfless hero
I wonder if this is what love sounds like?
Is this the meaning my mother spoke of?
To give up everything you are
in order to nourish the one you love
But maybe I am only dreaming again
so I quiet my emotions
Drink my coffee
And wake up

Hitler on TV

Miles Keefe — Fri, 20 Nov 2020 18:30:28 +0000

Ack ack ack ack ack ack ack ack ack ack
I looked up from my second grade homework.
Daddy sat in an armchair watching TV.
His face was red, and he held
his arms as if he had a rifle, making
a gun-shot noise with his mouth.
Ack ack ack ack ack ack ack

Boys did that, but not my father.
I came to see what he was seeing.

A man on the black and white TV stood on a high ourdoor stage
Yelling and waving his arms. His speech was fast and guttural,
I couldn’t understand, but
Something made me think whatever he said
must be true.

The picture changed. My father stopped shooting.
“Who was that?”, I asked.
“That was Hitler,” said my father.
“I should have shot him. I wanted to shoot him.”

I was quiet, watching TV.
Parades of goose-stepping soldiers, Hitler giving
bouquets of flowers to pretty little girls in flower crowns,
Maps, trains, a building missing one wall, bed and dresser
obscenely exposed.

I didn’t know what had happened, but two things were clear.
Hitler, whoever he was, had been beloved and powerful, and my father
still hated him.

How to Deal With a Depressed Person

Miles Keefe — Thu, 19 Nov 2020 01:38:47 +0000

1. Don’t ask me to look for a silver lining
when I can’t even point out the sky to you,
when I can’t wake up before 12 pm
because my bed feels like an old friend
that I haven’t quite understood,
an old friend who left with no explanations
but I just couldn’t let go

2. Stop telling me to go out more, relax, go for a walk, or eat healthier.
I won’t.
Fuck off.

3. Stop telling me to stop binge watching
because it binges me
It puts my brain to sleep
And my brain is a five-year old
with daddy and mommy issues,
and no-friends issues,
and give-me-more-chips issues,
I know it’s not a meal but I don’t care about my body,
and second-hand-smoking issues
because mommy smokes when stressed
and stress is her first-born when she was first born
and I don’t even know what that means!

4. Don’t yell,
don’t slam shut doors,
don’t love me, don’t leave me
Because I can’t really control my body’s shaking,
and the voices in my head
are like an arab grandmother:
always weaving unreasonable explanations,
like thinking someone is conspiring against them
But I’ve gotten over my leaving trauma,
so please, on your way out
close the door gently behind you.

5. Hold me close
but don’t touch me at all
Hear my silence,
my sobbing.
Tell me everything is not okay.

6. Take out your bullshit
preferably twice a day,
that shit stinks!

7. Do not tell me “what’s for your own good”.
I ran out of good,
sorry for the inconvenience.

8. Keep your advice to yourself
“smoking is bad for your health”
No shit?! Why else do you think I smoke?
The lit tip of my cigarette is
my lighthouse,
my lighthome.
Do not tell me that my health matters
when ashes are covering my hair, my nails, my arms
My ashes are my buddies,
My body’s
I’m burning myself to the ground
and I’m not asking you to grab a jug of water,
I’m asking you to hear the crackling of my fire;
acknowledge it.

9. No, I can’t just “make friends”
Friendship is a vending machine
and I am broke,
broken.

10. Don’t tell me how shook you are
that I’ve been seeing a therapist
for the last three years
but I still automatically point out
the highest building in every street I walk in
to assure the success of my suicide plan.

11. I’m not just sad.

12. I will not just “get over it”

13. I will not cry it out or laugh it off.

14. I feel no comfort in knowing that I am not alone in what I feel.

15. Help yourself to a glass of I’m Listening juice,
and while you’re at it,
try some of those I Won’t Blame You For Your Feelings cookies,
and how about a slice of I’m Here cake?

16. Ask me why I chose blue for my bedroom walls
or why I love collecting mugs
or how I fell in love with books
instead of asking me how my day was
or why I didn’t leave my house for the past three months
And do not hold me accountable
for not giving an answer
that psychologically explains why
my mental health is the way it is, because:

17. I do not owe you any explanations.

Jalisco Composition #1

Miles Keefe — Thu, 19 Nov 2020 01:32:39 +0000

          Dreams lend themselves
to my mind’s stove,
          are cooked, burned and charred.
 
          Their ashen remains
fall like flakes,
          A snow colder than the winter.
 
          My nose is stung,
and in my pain,
          I forgot how bad I hurt.
 
          The simple agony as fingers
claw their way
          along my thigh, complacently
like a dewdrop
          working his way
into bitter leaves
          racing against the
abduction of the morning sun.
 
          And the little
home I built
          Along the misty lake in my mind,
Is washed away forever.
 
          And though my dreams try to live,
they drown.
         And though I try to drown,
I live.

Jigglypuff: a Simon Cowell shitpost

Miles Keefe — Thu, 19 Nov 2020 01:38:47 +0000

I didn’t make it as a singer:
choked on American Idol
and put Simon Cowell to sleep,
even while singing both voices of “Love Shack.”
They couldn’t even air it caus he didn’t get to roast me,
so I’ve had to settle for singing drunks to sleep
night after night at Persian’s,
no love left in that shack,
forced by my boss to wear this thin, lacy top
squeezed around my puffy, pink
body, but at least my jar,
with
“will jiggle for tips”
written in black ink,
is always boasting a handful of singles.
 
I didn’t make it as a tattoo artist:
caus . . . drew dicks on Simon Cowell’s face that day
and he decimated me over Twitter
— it was super effective —
so the only commissions I got were for
Simon Cowell Facedicks
which weren’t large enough to pay well,
and so I can’t afford an apartment
big enough for my balloonity.
 
I didn’t even cut it as a Super Smash Bro:
too much of Nintendo’s stock owned by
Simon Cowell
for them to risk showing favor to Jiggly Dickface.
Only the prettier, pinker, less somniferous Jigglypuffs
get to cash in on that payday anyways,
pocketing enough gold coins
to afford Master Ball apartments,
let alone getting to sing to Pikachu all damn day.
 
Now, my tight red and white walls click shut every night,
my dim Pikachu lamp, its tail glowing softly,
illuminates my small circle of space
littered with old Poké
Bean wrappers,
dirty laundry, dried out black pens,
and inked up posters of Simon Cowell’s face.
 
I ignore these, and look only into Pikachu’s soft,
plastic eyes, wishing for a real one to cuddle,
to sing to sleep so I’d never have to give them up.
I listen to my neighbors’
creaking bed
through my thin walls,
knowing I’d never meet a Pikachu
willing to settle for a washed-up Jigglypuff,
even if I’d never let them down.
 
Staring at my domed, red ceiling, surrounded by my pity,
I pull on my cigarette,
inflating all the way to finish it in one drag,
pull out my green microphone and open my mouth as
my background music materializes from the ether,
and think of my high school auditorium:
 
a hundred of my peers listening to me
(before I learned to put people to sleep)
(before I lost the passion to keep them awake)
and I see their smiling, Simon-Cowell-dickless faces
while my neighbors bang on my walls
telling me to “shut my fairy mouth.”
Instead I shut my eyes,
and sing myself to sleep,
Zzz’s floating from my head,
my face covered with
a black-ink smile.

Keychains Weaponized

Miles Keefe — Thu, 19 Nov 2020 01:32:39 +0000

This part of town isn’t so bad. Lies
I tell myself at night. Lies that live
Inside pockets. Lies that grip keys
And keychains between knuckles where no
Man can see. Lies that I reason through:
 
Myrtle Beach shell
Montreal robot
          Not practical.
 
Korean drum
Hawaiian flowers
          Too delicate.
 
Golden wishbone
Eiffel Tower
          Best bet.
 
Although I do worry about the
Golden wishbone slipping from between
My knuckles or the Tower missing
Its mark. All completely real chances,
Real possibilities half past nine.
 
And I do worry that I won’t be
Able to find the Tower amongst
The others in my brimming pocket:
Left of the drum, below the robot,
Two from the shell, beside my flowers.
 
Keychains weaponized. But only for
Tonight. Ten feet until locked car doors.

My Sickness

Miles Keefe — Thu, 19 Nov 2020 01:32:39 +0000

I’m in his sterile palace built of paper cups
filled with too sweet apple juice and a linoleum
bathroom where everything is too white, most
of all his face and hands when he grips
the remote to his personal roll-in TV.
 
The potions and pills on his bedside table
make his saliva turn cement and steals
my mother’s voice from her sobs.
I want to try this concoction, his greedy
expensive spell that makes people care.
 
Sunken face and yellow eyes evoke the
hot coals of envy in my throat. Where
his flesh ends and machine begins blur, I wonder
if he is more metal or human. He is broken and
I’m whole, but it feels like I’m the one fading.
 
We didn’t go to Disney for my ninth birthday
although my mom promised. I place the blame
so heavily on his chest that it makes him cough,
and when he presses a “Call Nurse” button the world
stops and holds its breath for him.
 
I am left to wonder how he got all the luck.