Jokes aside, poemy-nostalgia aside,
the girl literally led me by the hand
and in no time let me literally slide
something of me into something of her.
Like stepping off a plane into a new country,
a warmer one, that had been secret.
But fuck all that, we’ve all been there by now,
it’s like eulogizing the first time
you ate an olive, right?, and I’m not
going there either (food metaphors, Christ),
I will say this: the Reagan presidency
continued unabated, things began to change
in Nicaragua, London Calling
was already on our jukebox in Oakdale,
Zooey Deschanel was just born.
Let’s not evoke it, let’s measure it –
by footcandles, given
that ten footcandles of memory = a quart
of blood and a pint of sweat, plus
the liquid weight of the things you forget
that once seemed unforgettable.
Give me a minute, and some scrap paper,
OK, here it is: about
two hundred thousand footcandles
of hot memory, now that what I once knew
about my tenth year has vanished entirely,
and the market has all but dried up
for books not written about grandfathers
who by the time of my first
erection were already no better
than ghosts.
Not Another Memory Poem
Did you enjoy the the artible “Not Another Memory Poem” from Michael Atkinson on OZOFE.COM? Do you know anyone who could enjoy it as much as you do? If so, don't hesitate to share this post to them and your other beloved ones.
Leave a Reply