kirk hamilton .com

We each of us invite change into our lives;
that restless, gentle houseguest
in the kitchen
brewing coffee
like he arrived ages ago

Last weekend, I took a trip back home to Indiana for a wedding.  I hadn’t been to Bloomington in the summertime for several years, and it really took me back – the smells, the heat, the leaves, the bugs and the breeze, the way the streets are quiet when the students are away. I thought I’d share some (frankly, terrible) lyrics I wrote several years back about the Hoosier State.

Indiana

this is a place
a place pretty large
where the limestone is king
and the klan was in charge

where twenty three cents
can about pay your rent
and cornhusks and soybeans
are common as cars

I gotta locate
my biannual roots
dust off my flannel
my shit kickin’ boots

I shouldn’t bother
it’s one or the other
make up my mind
before I go gray

it’s as good as it gets
with my cigarette set
if I could think I would
really go blue

Oh, India-na
you’re the crossroads of my life, it’s true
India-na
I can’t get the best of you

India-na
you’re the crossroads of our lives, it’s true
India-na
We can’t get the best of you

i’m surrounded by artists!
there’s one to each side
and a handful in front,
several more are behind

the room where i’m standing
has not before seen
such a varied cross-section
of the creative scene

painters in the kitchen
prepare us some chips
as the cellist beside me
finishes the dip

so the choir director
gives us his say-so
to finally dig in
to his chili con queso

over at the table
theater mavens are mixing;
the tech wizard relaxes
since nothing needs fixing

and this fine photographer
brought really good beer
so the guitarist and I
toast a really good year

the taiko drum player
has made us a feast
and as you’d expect,
it involves groovy beets

so we cram round the table
to share wine and kebabs
and opinions diverse
as our disparate jobs.

i’m surrounded by artists,
so it’s easy to see
why i’m proud to be part
of this arts faculty.

rain, rain, go away
come again some other day
maybe, like, next wednesday

this week isn’t great, you see
first I play in redwood city;
then friday’s booked as booked can be
and i’d prefer the sky sunny.

and i beg you, don’t just stay,
lingering through saturday,
misted windows
bum us out ’till we can’t weekend get-away.

sunday, monday, feel quite near
let’s start next week with skies quite clear
and stay that way
through tu-es-day’s
penultimate Idol of the year.

i know the soil needs hydration
to prevent summer conflagrations;
next wednesday should be okay,
but ’till then, rain, please go away.

This past weekend, I re-watched some episodes of the British Office at Nervo’s house, and oh my sweet Lord, I had forgotten how amazingly hilarious/unbearably horrible to watch that show is.  Holy pants.

Most Tuesdays, I share some bad poetry here, but after seeing episode one of the second series, I couldn’t get my mind off of David Brent’s spectacular Excalibur.  So, I thought I’d reprint it here.

Half of the poem is in the delivery (and in Dawn’s reaction thereto), but it stands up okay as a read, too. Behold:

Excalibur
by David Brent

i froze your tears and made a dagger
and stabbed it in my cock
forever
it stays there like excalibur
are you my Arthur?
say you are

take this cool dark steeled blade
steal it, sheath it
in your lake

i drown with you to be together
must you breathe?
‘coz I need heaven

i may be getting on in years
but i’m no grandpa yet;
though all the same i’m shocked by all
the things that i forget

i forget my watch, forget my keys
forget my wallet with worrying ease
and anything else related to
my day-to-day activities

i forget to turn the light off,
i forget to dim my screen
i forget to kill the power;
it ain’t easy being green

i forget to check nextmuni
when i take the 6 parnassus
and so I wait, and when it comes
i forgot all my fast passes

i forget to double-knot my shoes,
and when they come unlaced,
i just hope that i forget to trip
and fall flat on my face

i forget to tune my horn up
i forget to wet my reed
i forget to check the roadmap
i forget to check the key

the actor with the claim to fame,
the star athlete who won the game;
to my distress,
they’re all the same –
they slip, they slide, they won’t remain
within my fast-collapsing brain.

and though we were just introduced,
it seems that i’ve forgot your name.

sorry!