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Bad Ideas
Bad Ideas
Bad Ideas
Ebook84 pages25 minutes

Bad Ideas

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Nobody knows bad ideas quite like Michael V. Smith. In his new collection of poetry, he speaks to an intangibility of sense, or a sense beyond the rational. Bad Ideas explores the inevitability of loss and triumph with characteristic irony and tenderness. Through this dazzling collection of a remembered life, hung out to ogle like laundry on the line, Smith recalls a mother who discovers a sex tape, a man who dreams of birthing his own son and a woman who blends her baby girls into milkshakes.

Bad Ideas is a testament to how an altered perspective effects change, how stories can be recast. The collection forms itself into an exercise in which optimism is a practiced art recaptured in dreams and prayers and combined to acknowledge the unknowable, the contradictory, the ungraspable: "An evening is composed / in a hundred unchoreographed / dramas”; "I pull a Clark Kent / transform, dressed as a monk / in burgundy and gold robes. I think / this will protect me, but it doesn't”; "Dear Hatred, sweet / Hatred, do you not move our enemies / to know us better?” Hyperbolic and sincere, this collection brawls with the unquantifiable themes of family, loneliness and love.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateMay 8, 2017
ISBN9780889711211
Bad Ideas

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    Book preview

    Bad Ideas - Michael V. Smith

    Prayers

    Prayer for Irony

    After his wife left him for a juggler

    they met in the supermarket—a tall

    reedy man with fingers too fine

    for his short, plump torso—the artist

    did what he’d always wanted and

    bought a young terrier at the pound.

    He named it Irony, a cleverness

    in the face of grief, because wasn’t it

    he that suggested they invite his future

    cuckold, the juggler, for coffee?

    Around the house the dog pissed

    everywhere paper hadn’t been laid,

    making damp the hall closet, the sofa

    and bed. Irony was a model pup

    when the artist was free and the holiest

    hell at deadlines. If the man had baggies

    the shit was diarrhetic. Each evening

    the artist cried, the puppy padded

    across the room and slept. When, after

    weeks of being single, the artist said yes

    to an invitation to picnic in the park

    with that intern who held the elevator

    on occasion just for him, of course

    he brought Irony who vomited

    grass on the girl’s light blue Mary Janes.

    Finally, the artist thought himself savvy

    to rename the beast Happy. All day

    the terrier bawled for the moon in

    his small, convincing yowl until

    the sun rose on the seventh day

    and the man tried again with Lucky.

    By noon, a transport had flattened fur

    to grille, the nimble way a round dull

    period at the end of a sentence

    can render a trumped-up thought

    finite.

    Prayer for Hatred

    Would evolution have given feathers

    to the reptiles had they loved

    the risks on the ground?

    You resent your limitations, hatred

    being the best of them. A force

    for undoing, unavoidable,

    hatred is your beast rising up

    in the face of that which stands

    between you and fresh water.

    Must we debate if love

    is its bright twin, or if love, siametic,

    could live on its own?

    Has hatred not liberated

    more people than those who have done

    the enslaving?

    Dear hatred, sweet hatred,

    do you not move our enemies

    to know us better?

    Prayer for Envy

    Canvas envies paint.

    The bullhorn envies

    the voice without need

    of a battery.

    The diamond envies

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