Two Poems by Benjamin Schmitt
On drunken tourism in foreign lands
There are only a few whiskey shots to go before you become a cliché
before you stumble on the cobblestones
with such wicked urgency
lights become attached to faces wearing garments of rain
buildings dance, twirling with cathedrals, before giving birth to McDonalds
you buy fries and spill them all over the ground
a taxi picks you up on a corner
you burp out an address
there’s a woman in the passenger seat
her and the driver talk in their own tongue
this cab swirls through the night
like a gust from the Yellow Sea
you are the burnt out cigarette butt caught up in this
force that travels through the neighborhoods of Seoul
you are left on the side of a highway you’ve never seen
after the driver and his female passenger have laughed in your face
There were times when you commandeered yachts on the Vltava River,
stealing the wine of elderly Italians
as your friends chanted the theme song to Indiana Jones
times when you passed the locals of Cuzco pissing on their monuments
as you conversed with Pablito in Spanish
laughing at jokes in a language you normally could not understand
times flirting with girls on the Nile River offering them illegal alcohol
we all smoked hash there together
oh Hafsa, does your desert star still float over the ruins of Cairo in the night
everywhere there are expatriates
getting drunk and avoiding each other’s eyes
carrying the shame of restlessness
they’re all looking for something
on the dance floor of the most popular club in town
National Emergencies will be declared
when you cease your wanderings
third-world economies may collapse
if you decide to settle down back home
where there is always a job, a city, and a group of friends waiting for you
but this country is the alcohol that dilutes those attachments
it makes you forget who you are as you buy shots for the bar
and everyone smiles at you because at least you believe it
that a plane is a womb that can recreate someone over an ocean
that the same mistakes surely cannot be repeated in different time zones
and then one day you wake up with a really awful hangover
walking amongst the poplars, you see yourself
Maddening thunder
the barista at my local coffee shop
has a degree in philosophy
he is always talking about Descartes
and all I want is twenty ounces of the French roast
the woman bagging my groceries
once studied biology
the school she attended was really hard to get into
she asks me "paper or plastic?" and we discuss the properties of each
the woman who develops my film
has a master of fine arts in photography
she wonders how long it will be before everything just goes digital
and for better or worse she won't have to wear a uniform at this drugstore anymore
the guy who processes my payment at the phone company
has a Bachelor's degree in education
he taught ninth grade for a year in Harlem before quitting
to take a job which would pay him enough to live
our waitress this evening put on a performance
worthy of all those accolades she earned at her university's theatre
for we were drunk and obnoxious and sent our food back twice
she has played Ophelia and Desdemona and a server concerned with the taste of my steak
when the last of the oil runs dry
when the internet permanently goes down
when thieves and brigands rule the night
and cities burn down to their foundations
I'm not sure my customer service skills will help me
forage for food, though they may provide me a way
of escaping a beheading
oh post-apocalyptic baby
oh fair-haired technology-dependant lady
can you hear the maddening thunder of our denial
can you see the lightning that wrenches apart the very stars
will I be sitting in the safety of my cubicle when the sky goes ashen
when the waters of the bay fill up with dead fish
how much time passes us as we look out beyond these counters
how many rays of sunlight are wasted, that we will never feel
there is so much going on out there, legions of shouting men, fleets of traffic
sometimes you just have to run
while you can still see Disneyland