Every Valley (100th Post)

Every valley shall be exalted
At least that’s how the song goes
I suppose that is the hope,
though it’s tough to muster
the zeal or assurance
to make it a battle cry.

Down here it’s comfort food,
a blankie, a lullaby
a hope—but not in the strong sense.
It is a safe house
the barrel
I cling to after a shipwreck.

I'm Proud of My Eagle Scout

[this is the longest poem I've written in a long time. Any feedback would be appreciated.]

4th of July
rolls of the tongue
easy.

People tell me
the country
is all sorts of messed up.

I think they’re mostly right
but I don’t tell them.
I think it would
go to their heads

It’s the 4th of July
in Northern California
and it’s barely 70 degrees.
People are bitching.
I don’t mind,
I have a sweatshirt.

The 4th of July,
and I don’t have plans.
Nathan and I
just watched the Hangover
and now we’re sitting
outside a downtown café.
It’s quieter out here than inside,
even with the SUVs and motorcycles.

Nathan forgot to bring a book.
I offer the Bible in my backseat
and toss him the keys.

As he crosses the street,
I yell “the driver-side-back-door
doesn’t work
and the passenger-side-front-door
doesn’t unlock from the outside.”

It’s my cars 17th 4th of July.
She’s getting quirkier.
The driver-side-back-door
is a new quirk:
a result of me
trying to fix it.
Things generally get worse
when I try and fix them.

The 4th of July
and this town is quiet.
We don’t have quiet holidays.
The somber ones turn into excuses
to drink beer and grill meat.
I imagine that is what 9/11
will turn into.
I’m proud to be an American,
but even I know
our screw-ups
like our virtues are
loud. Or at least
they are today.

The 4th of July.
I wonder if they’re countries
that celebrate nation-hood
with a moment of silence
or candles or flowers.
It’d probably be a pussy-ass country—
sometimes I wish I lived in a pussy-ass country
but if I did
I know I’d miss the fireworks.

It’s the 4th of July.
I suppose things are pretty not-right
with my loud country.

But it’s the 4th of July,
and the girl awkwardly parallel-parking her suburban
behind my Corolla
is pretty damn cute;
and so is my Corolla.
The girl may even be beautiful,
despite the funny faces she makes
bumping in between the curb and my car.

It’s my car’s 17th 4th of July
and I’ll love her
even if I have to climb
through my trunk
to get in.
After all,
she is my car,
and the bumper sticker on the back
says she’s proud of me.

Barbecue Sauce

[Hey, I'd be down with any suggestions on this. The tense is weird to me. I really like story poems, so any help would be welcome.]

When they got to the restaurant
I was waiting outside on the bench
it didn’t take them long to comment
“So Jake, how are you doing?”
I just grinned
and tried to get up

It wasn’t my fault really
I hadn’t been paying attention
it was 96 degrees out
and I forgot to eat breakfast and lunch

I focused real hard on getting the burger to my mouth
and remembering to say the consonants
but I have trouble with those things when I’m sober

I was surprised she came
(she was real good looking
and I had spent the summer
trying not to noticeably notice it)
I don’t know why I ordered
a burger with Barbecue sauce on it,
but I did

With mesquite-whiskey goodness
settling in to it’s new home on my collar
I made conversation
I told them about the layer of cartilage
In a wombats ass
and how badgers defended themselves

I wish rolling eyes were signs of flirting
but I’m pretty sure they’re not
I wondered why barbecue sauce was so good in the mouth
but so bad on the shirt
I wonder if I tried to lick it off. . .
I’m in no condition to try and be sneaky

I got bored with the conversation
no wombats, badgers or barbecue sauce
just who's-dating-who
we were sitting outside
and I watched the birds fly around

Birds rule
I have a bird book in my car
I wish there had been someone there
who liked bird books, beer, and barbeque sauce
I bet we could have had a lot of fun.