Embedded Files
A Diary of the Culture Wars
Sunday
The warden wakes up with a crazy idea. He throws a party at the county jail. The prison band is wailing (like a police siren?) and the singer is going “... bah... bah...” One of the purple gang slides over and says, “Why don’t you put a ‘bomp’ in there ... punk,” and that’s how the book of love gets written. A guy up on the roof across the street goes ahead and jumps and lands under the boardwalk. I don't think they ever said they had the word love to sell us. Why this obsession with bald-headed women? Watching the four figures walking over the hill, the harpist turned to us and asked if we’d seen his old friends Bobby, Abraham, Martin and John. The bullfrog asked for assistance with the alcoholic beverage he'd somehow managed to acquire. We just pointed. The girls already living in California didn't seem to be enough anymore. “One’s the loneliest number you'll ever do” advertise the orgyists. Someone stops the rain, but we don’t know who.
Monday
You can remember your own name in the desert, but the horse’s name escapes you. If you leave me I won’t stalk you. If you leave me my stalk will take the form of humble public begging. The Wanderer keeps bumping into Runaround Sue every time he roams to a new town, but the tumblin’ dice could've told you that. Or the fortune teller. If you can’t see their faces, how can you tell they’re staring? The singer is going “... shoe... shoe...” when Boris slides over from Mars and puts the “bop” in, and that’s how I start a joke. An endless succession of blue skies, the wailing and gnashing of.
Tuesday
The singer’s about to sing a song that goes “... da... da...” when the tambourines and elephants playing in the band whisper words of wisdom, letting it be known they’d prefer a few “dip”s in there, and from then on, we thought the song was about us, didn't we? Sure, all we do all weekend is drive around the same route trying to pick up girls, but we do have ethics. Carrots, bruh, carrots.
Wednesday
“Proud Mary”—isn’t that the name of the pile of burning tires out on the Interstate? “Plenty of cigarettes and magazines,” says the announcer, “and still they whine.” I understood the part about the long legs, but how can arms be wicked? Oh, wait, she’s American. Business can cost you money. Please don’t throw it away. They may have been words of wisdom, but it still scared the shit out of us when she was suddenly right in front of us in the hour of darkness. There’s a kind of hush, sure, but what kind?
Thursday
The empty cup as sweet as the punch—very Zen. And how does a man walk? Wave theory posits a system of eleven vibrations. We’re settin’ the night on fire: there’s no time for a long keyboard solo! The lion’s asleep—don’t be wakin’ ’im up with all yer wimowehin’. Hands are held. A rock is formed. “I do hope this won’t take long, Harrison; I've got sticky buns in the oven” says the sweet-lord, looking at his watch. Not sure if kissing everything in sight is likely to make one less floppy with chicks. I’m sure somebody knows what time it is. It’s time for the favored few. Not sure about who cares. This could be the last time, we don’t know.
Friday
How can you jump down from a shelf “a little bit”? Hey there, could you state exactly what it is you find objectionable about Jean and Joan, please? You don’t seem to have a problem with Candy and Ronnie, and they’re all spaced out. I hate to wake you up to say goodbye, so while I’m at it, I’ve cheated on you multiple times. Do you want to get married when I get back? You might say a statutory rape charge would be an appropriate thank-you. What I’d say would be, “how’d you get the month of May when it was cold outside, and why aren’t you sharing it with the rest of us? It’s freezing out here!” What’s the interest rate on that loan Papa left us? And stop rubbin’ the birds’ and bees’ noses in it—they haven’t done anything to you.
Saturday
You’ve got two fists of iron—of course you’re goin’ nowhere! Iron is a heavy metal. How about bench-pressing a little deuce coupe? When one travels, all the towns are old and all the girls are pretty, little. “You poor little fool,” says the rain. A suitcase and a chump are two things. So let me get this straight: the jailer man and Sailor Sam are searching everyone for a fugitive band? It’s no wonder they haven’t found them: they’re looking for people who are too small. Wait—is this the same jailer man that was throwing the party last weekend?
Steve Carll lives with his family in Arcata, California. His third full-length poetry collection, Hypnopompic Diaries (Books One and Two) is currently out from Alien Buddha Press. Earlier books include Tracheal Centrifuge (Factory School, 2006), Tao Drops, I Change (with Bill Marsh, Subpress, 2004), and several chapbooks. His work has recently appeared in Utriculi, New American Writing, and Typo. From 1988-1998, he edited the literary journal Antenym. Performance video of most of his poetry from 1991 to the present can be found at https://www.youtube.com/@stevecarll/videos.
Copyright © 2025 by Steve Carll, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.
Report abuse