Poet Island Press

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Four Poems by Adam Goldberg

POSTED 2009-01-31 IN YOUNG WRITERS POEMS

Adam Goldberg's bright, ironic poetry is built on a keen awareness of self, the complexity of longing, and what seems at once a wavy, yet sturdy floor. A graduate of Emerson College, living for a year now on his own in Greece, he brings his insightful poems to life by crafting with precision a poet's spontaneous, personal reports from the ongoing struggle to be.

TRYING TO READ SOMETHING THAT’S WRITTEN ON THE FLOOR WHILE STANDING UP

Driving home at 3 or 4 the stadium is bright in front of me
And 1930’s steam rises from the manhole cover
Because it’s gotten colder
Maybe it’s because I’ve gotten younger
But I realize
(with a laugh perhaps)
That you laid your head on me tonight
Instead of your feet
I guess that’s something

I find it hard to write
When I’m in
Limbo
Or maybe it’s because I said
To myself
That I’d never write a single goddamn word
About you

And then you kissed me
And I thought
Things changed
Because it's those little things you can hold on to
And that was all I really needed
I thought
Just a little bit
Just a little
Sign
Of something

But I’m still driving home late
Trying to find my way
Onto the fucking highway
And even if I laugh
To myself
I have to remember
That even if you stopped
Resting your feet on me

I'll always be
Your doormat

FEELING BAD IN NICE PLACES

I didn’t see daylight today
And my shitty room is
Full of bugs

Using up my food
Good for me
Cuz I don’t eat

I only have to go out
If I run out of cigarettes
Or to
Grab a bottle of some sort

They tried to bomb a shoestore
The other night
On this sleepy little island

Not the reason I stay in
In fact
Had they succeeded I
Might be out now

Paradise is what you
Make of it.

I haven’t eaten all day
Got smashed last night

And I said a long time ago
It’s a damn good thing
To learn
You can feel this awful
In a place so beautiful.

THE QUIET ONES
OR
HAVING A CONVERSATION WHERE NOTHING IS SAID AND THE PARTICIPANTS ARE BLINDFOLDED AND SECRETLY LOATHE ONE ANOTHER

There’s this nice quiet Jewish girl from Manhattan
And she’s trying to be a slut

And I’m trying to let her

She'll grind her ass against your crotch
At will
And suck
His neck
On the dance floor

Without speaking

She’ll strip me down
And tell you to relax
As she rubs this guy’s cock
And blackens his neck
And places
Deliberately
A boy’s hand on her breasts

But it gets weird
When you want to ask her
What she’s thinking

Her actions speak loud
In about
Seventeen or eighteen
Indecipherable languages

The game that only she knows
The puzzles she laughs
The eyes she implies
The things she wants you to
Think she’s going to do to you

It’s the price
When I
Try to be like her
I’m not given
This leeway
But alas
She’s
Much better at it
Than me

I DIDN’T LEAVE YOU, I LEFT TO GET AWAY FROM YOU

Who’s calling me at
20 to five

Nobody

Trying to decipher
Your own insomnia is like
Pandering for compliments
When your house is
Flooding

And I should know
My house was flooding
One day

My phone rang at
7:45
Come home
I did

Had to apologize to my coworkers
But I did

Carpet was swimming and
All my possessions rescued I
Had to put on waders
In my own fucking house.

You I called
Help or sympathy or
Something undefined.

She talked about her day
And said

What did you want me to do
Come over and vacuum out
Your house

Yes
Yes that’s exactly what I
Wanted you to do

And now I’m
Half a world away
On this
Island where
Everything’s flooded all the time

She says
Come home

What the fuck do you want me to do

Your life is flooded
Then
Rescue your own damn
Possessions

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