Cody Conners (Prose)

teamwork

there’s nothing better to do
at three-twenty-four in
the morning
than stew
in your own
madness,
sweat out
liquor,
walk
home.

i find myself here
frequently:
stumbling towards
houses
with lights off
and cars
neatly
parked in their driveways
(i guess their owners
do not understand the value
of three-twenty-four in
the morning),
moving the passenger and driver
side mirrors on the car
drastically
and leaving notes that say
"YOU'LL NEVER CATCH ME"
in capital letters.

there is nothing worse
than being alone
in your plight.

winning

that's when you know she's got you.
4A.M., toiling in a composition
notebook
ink stain on your shirt looking like
blood pouring from a gunshot wound.

i'm a man with his neck in a noose:
here i can see the grocery stores
with my arms draped over her, laughing
at magazine covers, waiting to check out.
i can see the dining room tables
and the traditions starting.
it's in these moments, with the minute hand on the clock snarling,
that sentiment cuts through me
like a conquistador tearing the jungle with a machete.

that's when you know she's got you.
when you're love drunk,
throwing up adjectives in front
of god and everyone wondering
where the animal went and
whether or not you'll ever recover.
when the
feelings start falling off you like
ashes from
a burning
building.
when it seems like her figure might as well be a
stencil held in front of the sun
because her silhouette walks with you
all day
you're probably close.

but one day it will sink in and it will
be absolute, and you will know, and it will move
you in ways that words can't.
trust me.

i was a heavy weight fighter with
ten wins, nine by knockout,
zero losses.
she was a fluke
left hook that snuck in
when i threw the hay maker.
it was a million to one, but she
got me.

Friday/Saturday

wine, song, the pen, someone new
someone old
no one
but always the first three.
yuri gagarin and myself,
them and the animals,
the perfect life somewhere in the middle.
machine gun volleys of conversation: some good ideas, some bad ideas; beautiful women and handsome men can’t seem to have the latter.  we’re all drunken, feigning sobriety.  our most convincing words spring from the trenches to take the easily persuaded. philosophy, psychology, art: marx butchered six ways from sunday, the id and the ego, guernica. name dropping the greats, incessantly.
then there are the chants of the restless, their rhythm, never ending
commotion; determined to satisfy their most urgent needs.  perhaps, they’re
on to something -- you know, you can’t slur body language.  the
overwhelming awkwardness doesn’t faze the committed and the less
resolute will either rise to the occasion or go home hungry.  darwin
says thus is the way of world.

thousands and thousands of years of hardship, and we have this.
we did ok for ourselves.