Yes yes, I remember, I had lasagna
from a box the first time I saw you
on TBS. My brace-shackled mouth
squeezed my cackles into the TV antennae,
shot them to a nearby satellite and
bounced them back through the atmosphere
into your head, so you knew how funny
it was that I adored you.
Captain Oveur asked a little boy,
“You ever seen a grown man naked?”
and my face flared red, knowing I hadn’t,
kind of because I loved The LORD but
mostly because we didn’t have internet.
You asked the flight attendant,
“Can you face some unpleasant facts?”
and I already had, that Mom cancelled AOL
because Dad loved the women in his inbox.
You said, “Don’t call me Shirley,”
and my parents laughed at once, a rare sound
that made everything seem all right.
You said, “There is no reason to panic.”
And I believed you,
but as more passengers got sick,
Mom and Dad white-knuckled Diet Cokes
on separate couches, silence hovering
in turbulent air, an ocean of carpet
between them – still, you remained calm,
assured the captain, said, “I’m a doctor,”
and taught me your secret: you dealt
deadpan with guitar-playing nuns
and little girls who take coffee black
like their men, because the best thing to
wear is a straight face when you know
the plane is going down.
Poet Douglas Kearney and composer/producer/drummer Val Jeanty link up for a a compelling LP that feels like the written word come to life. Bandcamp New & Notable Mar 30, 2021