That's a Stop Sign You're Driving By

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

The moon was big and red
the night they scattered your ashes
on a lake from an airboat near
where you used to live.

I got drunk on Irish whiskey and talked
to a stranger about prostate cancer.
The folk singer played you a song for me.

I'm re-reading the beginning and still can't believe it.
That we've gone from passing notes and failing classes
to bleeding ink eulogies and never being able to say
"You went bald before me."

Maybe the ashes floated north to my backyard
and helped me smoke half a pack of cigarettes.
Or maybe they choked a fish to death.

From our fragile years our bones have grown
into weapons to fend for ourselves.
The silent majority lobbying for later curfews,
being able to bring dogs to school
and exercising our right to be wrong.

If you were still alive, I'd have you help me
design a logo or flag for the Sacred Saint of Nothing,
to wear proud like a veteran of future wars
or pennies stuck to our faces from sleeping on floors.

The fence was longer than the gate,
which had a lock on it anyway.
These bruised knuckles are for you.
The hole in the door is too.