Two Poems

by Evan Minsker

karl’s birthday show

driving delirious: hot bagged
mexican pizza smell conjures
George Clooney’s batsuit nipple

head pounding: no earplugs,
sloppiest crowd, wettest floor,
glass boot passed, a ceremony

old leather padre: uh oh,
sports white panthers badge,
asserts his mouth smell far too close


"Dance"

when and where
did I purchase
a flimsy wooden
laser-cut
envelope-sized
word art sculpture
that reads, simply:
“Dance.”

some loose memories
around its purchase:
“no”
“don’t buy this”
“why would you buy this”
bringing it to a register
bringing it home
losing track of it for 2 years.

I rock the baby;
she changes sheets,
changes shirt,
dumps baby vomit linens.
a frustrated groan,
a loud mutter: “fuck you.”
the click-click-clack skitter
of a tiny thrown object.

I see it: a familiar face,
its forgotten origin.
she found “Dance.”

Evan Minsker is a journalist, editor, and poet living in Wisconsin’s Chippewa Valley. His writing has appeared in The New York Times, Pitchfork, Rolling Stone, NPR Music, CREEM, Alt Press, MTV, and elsewhere. He writes, podcasts, and does radio about the latest in punk and rock’n’roll over at see-saw.fun.

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