Katie Minacs: 3 poems
Dennis Wilson
Denny was
Dennis Wilson, the drummer
But drank his way,
Through jugs and jugs and
Jugs of juice and rum,
To become
Dennis Wilson, the deadbeat
Who drowned on
28 December, 1983
Peering past
The docks of Marina del Rey.
Denny was
Diving drunk,
Jumping
Off The Emerald
Surfacing
To show his audience
Of friends
Wondrous junk he’d found in the water
Like a golden retriever.
Denny was
Sabotaged by the sea,
Swallowed up
When he hit his head on the docks
And fell
Further to the bottom
Of where he’d
Already been.
A fresh 39
Trashed
Because of some junk.
Caro
My morning friend
Reminds me of sunshine
And light
Because she is always there,
Camped out in the cafeteria,
Greeting her visitors
In the day’s happiest hours.
Hanging
I’m not here because
I’m trying to
do something
big.
This is an
impulse
that I’ve had ever since I started
to feel
bad about life.
It’s inconsistent and I don’t
call the shots, really, about
what I say when
I’m here.
I might go
away for a while.
A re-
treat
from Jan to Feb,
trying
too hard to fix things.
I might be back
in March
when I feel my friends starting to
piss and pass me off,
and I will spend too much
time alone.
I might be back
in my room too often,
where the breakdowns happen.
And the cleaning ladies
will wonder:
why
is her sink clogged?
And I can(’t)
answer them:
It’s because I made myself vomit
by shoving the back of my toothbrush
down my throat.
I’m laughing
because you probably assume that
I have bulimia.
I’m not a bulimic.
I think
that I might just be a very sad
person.
And this is why I am here.
So please,
I am not trying
to be
impressive.
This is where I am
when I am sad.
60+ pages September ...
to November ...
a really bad time ...
with all kinds of men ...
of all ages.
Lived unconventionally.
You only live
the way I did this past fall
when you don’t
want to live, but don’t have it in you to
do something about the discomfort.
When you start acting
like everybody else you can understand
why your friends went quiet.
But you also feel special.
Breaking down
the way I broke
is reserved for a certain type of people
hanging on the fringes.
Not many can stomach sleep deprivation
and their feet can’t walk
up and down Bay
every night.
Not many can listen
to my music at such
high volume.
We’re the kids on the playground
who flip upside-down on the monkey bars and
hang there
and let the blood rush
to our heads
so we can feel full.
I never actually did this
when I was a kid.
I liked the swings,
‘cause I preferred attention
from one.
Swinging and chatting,
looking to what’s above
and pretending
to believe in our game through
temporary commitment.
But I hang
upside down on the monkey-bars
when everyone has gone
home for the day
Katie Minacs is a student at the University of Toronto in her second year of studies, majoring in history and doing a double minor in philosophy and religion. She occasionally writes poetry and is am specifically inclined towards free verse and haikus. Charles Bukowski is one of her favorites