As I Lay My Head To Sleep

Below is an example of a contemporary New York School poem. Both generations of the New York school believed in accumulation and wit didn’t just have a place, but was poetry. Noting current events, pop culture scenes that came and went, and what the speaker saw in their walk was all poetry. It was a way to say everything and nothing at once. Poems became a game between friends and an unknown audience, seeing what little things they would mistake for a bigger meaning. Of course, not all of the poems were pure play, especially in the case of the work produced by the second generation. However, trying to prove a political/ethical point wasn’t the original driving force of the movement. The poem below certainly doesn’t try to swing the reader one way or another, but enjoys the fact it’s being read.

I wrote this for a class last term. It isn’t brilliant. It certainly is fun. I wrote it to make my friends laugh and seal who I was at that time away in something I could return to. Returning to it now after the craziness of the last couple of months has helped ground me. The last note I want to give is to read it out-loud. Read it while walking around a kitchen or backyard porch. If you can read it to someone else, please do.

as i lay my head to rest

it’s too cold for this time of year.

it’s raining too much. the ground

can’t possibility hold all of this

but it gives time to catch up on

newly released albums, which reminds me:

hey norman fucking rockwell,

what does euphoria gold tears

and mint flavored condoms

have in common?

they’re both better in theory.

like the theory love is just

a mess of chemicals and hormones

and it disappears which means

nothing actually matters, we

all die anyway.

does inhereditarily secretive mean a secret

stocked and stored father to son

mother to daughter until loose

lips sink ships? not really sure

but dad said that last bit all the time

in the lemonwood house.

like when that one couple fucked

in the front yard halloween night.

like when he talked about pearl harbor

like he was there (spoiler alert, he fucking

wasn’t). like when he broke the wine glass

after drinking too much.

he claims he’s been sober for 30 years

(spoiler alert, he fucking isn’t).

“this generation isn’t more fucked up

than other generations, we’re just

more open about.”

like kristopher, like ben,

like jolie, like me, like may

like emely, like all my

roommates. holy shit,

this list could go on. thank

god therapy exists, does god exist.

“i’m not religious but

i’ve met god four times.”

is my favorite opening line

of a story i’ve heard

in the past week between drinking

espresso shots and shitty beer.

talking to them is hard. i want

nothing more than to use facetime

as a 21st century confession booth

to come to a definition of home.

someplace where my brain makes time

to dream, where i can take as much

adderall as my heart can stand

before it busts and it doesn’t matter

how similar the white girls i

sleep with are.

let’s just fall asleep, legs

pressed against a stranger’s stomach

while watching criminal minds

and i’ll tell you matthew grey gubler

collects wisdom teeth, puts them

in a bag and stores them

in a loose brick in his fireplace.

you’ll tell me moments like this

matter, despite that even us

will forget them. despite we

all die anyway. and my brain will

forget to dream.