Horse Sweat

from Perfect Sleeping Weather by Larry Fulford

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Scrawled into notebooks from the familiar comforts of temporary homes and the passenger seats of mechanically unsound vehicles adrift on the highways and back roads of America, Perfect Sleeping Weather is fifteen years of thoughts, observations, facts, and fictions hammered into a collection of poetry that, according to one reader, "sounds like a sigh."

In this, his first book, writer/drummer/comedian Larry Fulford reflects on the usual -- life, death, love and leaving -- while still managing to name-check Van Halen. Twice.

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lyrics

Trailer smells like horse sweat and hardships.
We wake up long enough to ask each other,
“You fall asleep?”
All of the pens in this house
are damn near out of ink.

Nothing in the bedroom drawer but
pumpkin scented candles.
I can’t write with those.
Melt them down all you want,
I don’t have that kind of skill.

There’s a basket of seashells on the back of the toilet
next to an unopened cake of Irish Spring’s new Icy Blast scent
but I didn’t think it got cold enough
to be icy in Ireland.
I always pictured it gorgeous and green,
like the word “topography” at midnight.

Hedge trimmer on the sofa
ceiling fan on the floor
old hats that absorbed
memories from old heads
hanging ‘round the fireplace.

Brown rodeo shin guards,
faded as the ink in this pen
I found on top of the refrigerator,
busted and taped up with
gauze-flavored bandages.
The lassos make a figure 8
the only infinite anything.

We caught it all on fire and the truck died over it.
I waited to blow up that day.
Still smells like horse sweat.

Horseflies are full of blood from other things.
The fatter they are, the redder your hand gets
when you smash them.

We could study the side effects
of incompetent presidents and whittle down
the days or not give a good goddamn
and carve our lives into monuments.

Already greater than the sum of our parts
with splinters in our palms
and bruised hearts.

To the creatures that hide from the sun
and the doctors who cheat on their final exams,
the widows who never forget
who won the last argument,

to this Crown and Sprite,
goodnight.