"Dog People" from the serial poem "ORIGAMI HEADPHONES" by Thomas DevaneyÂ





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"Dog People" from the serial poem "ORIGAMI HEADPHONES" by Thomas DevaneyÂ

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April 26: "Trying To Live As If It Were Morning" by Thomas Devaney
Your name: Lauren Hall Authorâs name: Tom Devaney Authorâs website address: http://www.thomasdevaney.net/ Whatâs the Philly (love) connection?: Tom lives in Philly and teaches creative writing at Haverford and Penn. (Thereâs also a Philly shout-out in the poem, itself.) Whyâd you nominate this poem?: Not only is this poem a master class in craftsmanship, it brilliantly cuts through the bullshit of our daily lives with unapologetic candor â âPhilly-Style.â Itâs the kind of poem that, after reading it, you canât help but say, âHell yeah.â
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Trying to live as if it were morning
Every character in Dostoevsky is going to be in the hospital     after this poem. The underground man with a baseball bat, clearing house âPhilly-Style,â and from what Iâve seen     it would be true.
I put the Brothers K and their endless array of calamities    out with my pinky.
I donât go in for the ping-pong of rational-irrational,    possible-impossible â The sad, lucid, mad, attractive, murky    and yes, horrible overcoat of Paradox, Pennsylvania.
I donât need that.
The Bros. K are gone. The problem of fake hamburger or even real hamburger remains.
The Past at my back, Back in the past, I agree with John Coltrane    when he says, âWar begets war.â
I drive all around my neighborhood with âthe Idiotâ Â Â in the front basket of my bike. When he falls out we pick him up and keep going. Heâs clever in a way that any other person might be killed for.
Of course, people donât fuck with us.
Itâs the old game of imposing order where there isnât any    then calling yourself on it.
The ancients called it gravity; the modernists job security. The people after lost a lot of weight and went home pissed off Not believing they were home when they actually were, ââso they never really slept.
Itâs the kind of trouble a fleet of blimps âup in flamesâ Might cause flying over an Olympic stadium as seen    on video cassette â          but really real anyway, like on fire.
People point out the violence I do to my own words, How uncareful I can be â I duck under their commentary. My copy of Crime and Punishment is under the aloe plant   all buckled and stained from water.
A man I respect said there hasnât been any âbreakthrough workâ Â Â Â since sometime in the 1930âs. Sometimes for me it would just be breaking things; Like my uncleâs a âgood guy,â but The precinct captain pulled his back-up. He shouldnât be here. We donât talk about it.
Take out a piece of paper and write down: Man the builder, Man the destroyer, Man the eater   of donuts, butter cake, and pork buns.
The experimenter says he, or a recombinant He and She âunsettles all things.â Even though thatâs cool, I donât unsettle âall things.â I donât have enough time. Thereâs enough nonsense without that nonsense.
Iâm not here to settle that. Iâm here to write a poem because Iâm a morning person   and itâs morning.
This is a morning poem.
first published in The American Poetry Review, November 1, 2000.