Two Poems

by Sam Pink, 3.24am May 10th 2021




On the drive home

I tried to calculate the chance

I could stick my head out the window

and bite the ear of a black lab

with its head out the window

as we crossed in opposite directions.

It seemed almost impossible.

But you wouldn’t believe

the things I can do.







This one starts with a fuck no

to most everything

until we figure out what’s what.

And who’s who.

And we will.

There is no escaping

what’s what.

And who’s who.

With that said

I saw a guy

weedwhacking around a dead raccoon

and it was funny as hell.

And lately

my worldview is,

‘That makes sense.’

Which has brought me great joy.

Because if I say it

it is already law.

At the gym

one guy told another,

‘Yeah all you have to do is go to his house,

he’ll fight you.

He almost went pro.’

And I’ve started thinking that

for other things.

He almost went pro.

Watching a turkey

cross a busy road

its head bobbing fast.

He almost went pro.

Weedwhacking around a dead raccoon.

He almost went pro.

Because the story writes itself.

The thing is

the thing.

I raise a fuck yeah to the world

and wait for no echo

because that itself is the echo

of the world’s fuck yeah to me.

A cycle which cannot be undone.

Only recognized and ridden.

Hang-glided into fire.

I saw a couch on the curb for haul

and immediately thought,

‘That’s you with relationships’

and something changed within.

I could feel it.

So I recognized and embraced it.

Hang-gliding into enemy territory

in a nice suit, a stern look

on my face.

My name is what I do

and that means I’m always already done.

Which is better than always not quite going.

Hang-gliding into enemy territory

with a bouquet.

He almost went pro.

Driving home from work tonight

smelling like bleach

listening to the same song

on repeat.

The windshield wiper on the driver’s side works

but the other is held together with rope and tape

and mostly turns sideways

doing nothing, just swinging.

But I’m looking straight ahead anyway.

You know what I mean, motherfucker?

Always looking straight ahead.

My name is what I do and

I’m a pro.

Pushing through ten feet of bulletproof barrier

to kill your heart with a flick.

Because the story writes itself.

You just take notes.

And I shit on you all.

Laughing from my prop cloud

the wires visible.

What I mean is eventually

the pile of tryers becomes the ladder.

And someone ascends and

realizes how lonely it is.

And that sucks, ya know?

Except it doesn’t.

Or yeah it sucks but

so do you.

Wandering around, wondering

why everything sucks.

But it’s you!

My name is one fist I move in a circular motion and

what I do is the other one coming across

colliding with your face.

I briefly perceived passing clouds

as the land slipping off the globe.

And I was a little jealous.

But whatever.

Honestly, sometimes I just

open my window

and look out at the night, street level.

I smell the air.

A few cars pass but it’s quiet.

Somewhere around 11pm.

Patterns in the streetlight

if you stare long enough.

He almost went pro.