Pate Boy

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

Amazingly, my reflection in the window
still makes me think of Christmas in Germany
and all the fallen snowflakes that died
for our holiday state of mind.

Someone has given a name to this postcard:
Going Home

Over dinner, my mother and I discussed people
we knew in that speck of a hometown
people who are dead now
people who are dog catchers now.

The small creeks are pregnant with embryonic rain
and starting to dilate
eager to drench the low-lying land in amniotic fluid.

It is our birthright to grow too large for bellies
and cribs our fathers or our mothers’ “friends”
assembled themselves.
It’s our right to drive far
from the hospitals we bled in
and bedrooms we bawled in
until we slam into something.

After dinner, we took a drive
to the cemetery to see which Pate boy was killed.
He and his girlfriend had been buried side-by-side
like a country song
bouncing off trees that line a gravel road
(like a country song).
Mom knelt to brush grass clippings,
fired from a lawnmower drive-by,
from their headstones.

It felt like a scene from a movie with a soundtrack
that might include bands like The Shins or The National or
something off Beck’s Sea Change.

My reflection doesn’t remind me of shit now.
Never really reminded me of Christmas in Germany.